György Spiró - Captivity

“I’d never have figured you as one for the Circus,” Alexandros said.

“I’m not,” said Uri. “I’m here for the philosopher.”

Alexandros was unaware that a philosopher was on the program; all he knew about was chariot races and wrestling.

“But of course!” he said. “You were also in the amphitheater in Syracusa on account of some philosopher.”

Uri was again flabbergasted: how did he know that?

“Matthew said.”

Uri fell silent. Was his every move being discussed by his companions? Alexandros twisted his head around, studying the soldiers sitting in the upper tribune.

“They get everything free,” he said cryptically. “Even the wine. Civilians have to pay.”

The indignation came as a surprise to Uri.

“In a few days they too will be in Jerusalem,” said Alexandros. “All three cohorts and the whole ala.”

“What gives you that idea?”

“Everyone knows.”

“Have you been to Jerusalem before?”

“No, but everyone knows that all four cohorts and the ala have to be there, along with the prefect, for the four big feasts. Caesarea falls empty on these occasions. If anyone wants to occupy it, this is the time to do it.”

“Why so many soldiers in Jerusalem?”

“They’re frightened of us,” said Alexandros, with an evil laugh. “Scared stiff, the wretches. If we were united in our will, we would rise up and hurl them out from the top row, and they would all fall down dead.”

Uri thought it best to say nothing, so he turned toward the wall, separated from the race track by railings on both sides; on the steps constructed at the south end of this the notables were starting to file up. They were greeted with loud acclamation by the soldiers in the upper tribune, and in turn they waved and bowed as if they were actors.

“Big nobodies,” said Alexandros. “Local quaestors and aediles.”

I’ve been traveling for a month and a half with my companions, thought Uri, yet I know nothing at all about them. What does he mean by their being frightened “of us”? Who are “we” anyway? Alexandros and me? Who else is “one of us”?

The preparations for the chariot race lasted for ages, deliberately dragged out with all sorts of hocus pocus, and while the spectators were now cheering for the four colors (green seemed to be the most popular, as it was in Rome, with the soldiers uniformly banking on that, whereas the Jewish citizens, from the noise, went more for blue), Uri, for the sake of having something to say, asked Alexandros if he minded going with him later if he was able to arrange to see the sewer.

“I’ve already seen it,” said Alexandros. After a short pause, he added, “It really is a magnificent construction. Every building is connected, the biggest of them with drains ten to twenty cubits across. It’s possible to go around the whole town down there; with a good map one always knows which building one happens to be passing beneath.”

“Are there maps like that?”

“Yes, in diagram form. They were needed for its construction and now for maintenance; it is checked regularly, as it needs to be.”

“And is there a sewer under the stadium?”

“Certainly. The latrines are beneath us. As long as you hold your nose, you can crawl up a drainage channel into whichever sector you choose. The rainwater ditch is also connected. See? It runs all along the side of the arena, and there, next to the wall, is the gutter from the two sides. The stables are also connected. The city spent more on what’s down below than on what can be seen up top. That tall water tower on the left, that’s the stadium’s own special water tower. Look there! On the top of the wall, next to the place of honor is the fountain. It works, too, because it is at a lower height than the water tower… All the important buildings have their own water towers, haven’t you noticed? But there is just one aqueduct… You can’t stand sentries alongside it every ten paces; that would require many tens of thousands of them, and they can’t afford that many…”

A man who is as strong as a bull, allegedly a merchant, comes here from Rome, the city of sewers and aqueducts, and that is what interests him. What, in God’s name, is Alexandros a merchant in? He has never spoken about that. And from what is there a need to defend an aqueduct made of stone that is ten to fifteen cubits wide and runs at the height of five or six men? Surely not from us?

Uri felt no urge to demolish this superb aqueduct.

A colossal din arose: to the south, the quadrigas — two-wheeled chariots with teams of four horses abreast — appeared, with their drivers standing in them. They drove to their starting positions and turned there. The four chariots, one for each color, stood for the start. Bets were being laid, with agents of the local betting office flitting around between rows, handing out tessera, the precise nature of which remained a mystery to Uri, with the names of drivers and horses flying back and forth. The lunacy had begun.

“It’s a dangerous course,” Alexandros said excitedly, panting in Uri’s ear, his nostrils quivering. “There’s room for at most three and half chariots; they were stingy. Blood will flow, mark my word!”

Uri peered and blinked. He would not have ventured a guess at how many chariots fit alongside each other on the track; Alexandros must be a seasoned race-goer. The starter, with an orange kerchief aloft in his right hand, appeared at the starting line; the crowd roared. When he dropped the kerchief to the ground, with a theatrical flair, the gates at the four start positions were yanked up by a servant by means of a pulley contraption, and the cutthroat contest began. Before the kerchief hit the ground they were already hurtling.

By the end of the first half-circuit the left-side wheel of one of the chariots got caught on the pyramid that marked the turn, the chariot had toppled over and another had driven over it, leaving two horses lying with broken legs and one of the charioteers lying on his side, head bleeding, the other was limping, trying to escape by hopping toward the ditch on one leg. Servants scurried to clear the smashed chariots out of the way of the two chariots left in the race, and they paid no attention to the drivers. The two remaining chariots popped into view from behind the wall and again hurtled from left to right along the length nearest the stands; veering sharply to avoid the horses lying across the track, they came within a hair’s breadth of colliding. The crowd raged. The two chariots galloped for seven complete circuits, and the green colored driver won — as it happened, the one for whom the bulk of the crowd had been rooting.

Everyone was yelling; those next to Uri jumped to their feet. The victorious chariot driver took a victory lap; people whistled and clapped and clamored. The winner staggered up to the wall and was garlanded with a wreath. The limping driver inched his way from right to left to the starting line and then vanished through a doorway, to whistling and jeering. The bloody-headed one lay unconscious next to the wall; he was just left there. The second-place driver was sobbing as he drove his panting horses toward the starting line and then disappeared onto the path that led to the stables.

In the second race, one of the chariots overturned and broke apart immediately. The horses stopped, the chariot was unhitched, and they were led back to the starting line, with the driver sprinting off to let the remaining three chariots speed along without obstruction. The man with the bleeding head from the first race was only carried off after the winner of the second race had been announced; he too was whistled at, though he could have heard little of it.

It was then the wrestlers’ turn to enter from the left; they clambered up onto the southern end of the partitioning wall, where cordons had been set up on either side to keep them from falling off, while still leaving spectators on both sides a good view. The combatants were not armed and wore loincloths. Blows, holds, kicks, or bites of any kind were allowed; a match was over when one of the contestants conceded. The winner got up and beat his chest at length, aiming kicks at the opponent who was lying on the ground, every kick acknowledged with rapturous hoots from the crowd. The winner bowed toward the notables and the public at large before ambling down the steps toward the stables. The loser left in the same direction; on reaching the arena he sank to all fours and squirmed away, wiggling his hindquarters to gales of laughter and applause from the public.