György Spiró - Captivity

Uri asked what work he had in progress.

“Not a single thing has come to my mind for years,” said the philosopher woefully. “I have forgotten even the things I once wrote. I wasn’t able to find a wealthy sponsor; I have to keep traveling all the time, even though I loathe doing that. I was not too clever in arranging my fate.”

Uri wagged his head in disbelief.

“There you have it. In Rome I am known even to the Jews,” the philosopher sighed happily. “Who would have believed it! Perhaps a time will come when I make an appearance even in Rome itself… It must be twenty years since I went that way… I had a major success there. But those were the days when there was still culture, erudition in the world…”

Uri trudged slowly among the civilians toward the town center. The soldiers, formed into detachments, made faster progress; the nailed soles of their boots struck the pavement hard, and they disappeared in the direction of the barracks, which had been built here, as throughout the empire, outside the city walls as a precautionary measure.

Uri had the feeling that as a Jew who paid taxes to the Romans in Judaea, he too had been robbed. He thought about how much was collected from each Jew in Rome in poll taxes and the tariffs on produce, out of which these free shows were paid for. He had heard back home that dues here were self-assessed, with the newborn and dead only being reported every fourteenth year. But how high a percentage was the tax? He would ask when the occasion arose.

He cautiously inspected the Jews trudging by, not noticing that he was staring at them. Apart from feeling cheated, he had nothing in common with them. Yet our religion is the same, Uri thought uncertainly; we are one race, the chosen people.

The charming family with whom they had spent the night in Campania, near Puteoli, came to mind. The many children who shouted happily at one another; the loom; the sheep. God willing, I shall pay them a visit again, he resolved.

He decided to make a solemn promise on the matter. He was amazed how close he now was to the Temple, where that vow was due. Only he could not imagine how he would pay for the sacrificial dove that was necessary for such a vow.

The days of waiting dragged on; Uri rambled around town on his own while his companions disappeared early in the morning, declining his requests to go with them. What important business did they have in Caesarea?

He saw Plotius occasionally in the distance; there were not too many men in this neck of the woods who had such thick, coal-black beards or graying, bald-pated heads. He kept his eyes peeled as he gazed at the harbor; Plotius was drinking on tavern terraces and absorbed in conversation with old men. For the most part, they were Jews, though there were some Greeks as well. Antique buzzards with decrepit features and bodies — not the kind who would be building palaces for themselves. What, he wondered, might Plotius the builder be inquiring about?

One evening he decided to ask him. After prayers and supper, Plotius set off by himself to one of the bowers in the garden, and Uri went to join him. Plotius stopped and waited for him, as he had two weeks previously at the harbor in Syracusa.

“You saw me with the Elders, didn’t you?” Plotius asked.

Uri swallowed deeply. Plotius must have good eyes if he had spotted Uri.

“Yes.”

“Fair enough,” Plotius said, and sat down on a bench in a vine arbor. Uri sat down next to him. It was warm, the sun had just set. Plotius reeked of wine; he had spent the day plying the old men with drink.

“It was the reason I wanted at all costs to be a member of the delegation,” Plotius said. “Even though the last time I was here I was falsely denounced and barely managed to get the hell out of here… I was accused of theft. Me! All I can say is take good care of yourself in this part of the world… Anyway, I came because the harbor of Caesarea interests me.”

He paused, waiting for this to sink in. Uri just ogled.

“You must remember: Matthew talked about how hazardous the harbor at Ostia was; that it ought to be reconstructed…”

“I remember.”

“Well, I’m looking to rebuild it.”

Uri still did not get it.

“That, my friend, is a big deal!” said Plotius. “There’s millions to be made from it. Some emperor is bound to want to do it sometime. Puteoli is a long way from Rome; Ostia is near. Ostia is the future. There’s just one difficulty: saltwater corrodes cement… But it may well be that Herod the Great’s engineers found a way around this — right here. They discovered a way of making a concrete that hardens in seawater, only the method has been forgotten. The builders were Latini, invited here by Herod. I followed up on them in Italia: they died long ago, but there are still a few people living who worked on the construction of the harbor with their own hands. I’m trying to learn from them what materials were used.”

Uri brightened. He had liked Plotius from the start, and now he knew why: he was a man with a goal. He wanted to make money, a lot of it. That was a worthy ambition.

“Did you learn anything?”

“Not much,” Plotius said. “I probed very discreetly, of course, tangentially. ‘Don’t make yourself noticeable in the eyes of authority’—that’s a wise Judaean proverb to be found in the secret books of the law… I have found out that rocks carved in squares were framed with wood, submerged in the sea, and the gaps were filled out with some kind of sand… The wood rotted, but the sand in the wooden molds hardened… It’s said that two centuries ago the harbor of Cosa in Italia was built in exactly the same way. I’ve been to Cosa, however, and that harbor is ruined. This marine concrete as it is called will not last two hundred years, but four or five decades — most certainly if Caesarea’s harbor is still standing, and, as you can see, it is standing… That’s more than enough for any emperor. The word is that some volcanic ash was brought in from Italia; a few of the old boys maintain it was called puteolanum… Two of them gave the Latin name even though they don’t speak a word of Latin… Maybe it comes from around Puteoli; it could be the ash from one of the eruptions of Vesuvius. But there must have been some other material mixed in — something, on being exposed to the salt of the sea, works with the volcanic ash to become stronger than rock in the seawater… I can’t find out anything, though, about this other material…”

He fell silent. Matthew came up and sat down with them in the arbor.

“Am I disturbing anything?” he asked.

“Not at all,” said Plotius. “I was just explaining to Gaius that it’s my wish to rebuild the harbor at Ostia.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Matthew. “The old buzzards have been telling me that you were grilling them about the secret of concrete that sets in water.”

Plotius laughed.

“Before long the whole of Rome is going to know about my secret plans!” he declared merrily.

“From me they won’t,” said Matthew. “But rest assured that there is no way that the work will be awarded to you. There is too much money at stake. It’ll be won by huge bribes; they’ll pay off the entire senate, the Praetorian Guard, the emperor… You’re a pipsqueak in this game.”

“But what if I know the secret of concrete that binds on contact with water alone?”

“Then they’ll drag it from you and throw you into the Tiber!”

Plotius thought that over.

Uri was not sure if he should be happy to be here. Was this perhaps the right time to stand up and go so that they could talk more freely?

“What do you think?” Matthew asked suddenly.

“Me?” Uri asked.

“Yes, you!” said Matthew.