György Spiró - Captivity

“Was he stoned?” asked the one sitting under the slit.

“No, burned alive.”

The man who was seated closer related the incident with relish. Every one of the villagers, even women and children, had assembled to watch; they were summoned to learn from it. The smith boiled up iron in a pan over an enormous fire, and when the iron was flowing, the bound thief had a scarf tied around his neck and pulled from both ends. He was strong and lasted a fair time without air, but he eventually gave out and opened his mouth wide, gasping for air. Well, it was then that the smith’s assistant poured the scalding iron into his gullet, made him drink it up until he burned. With white-hot metal pouring out through the holes in his burst-open chest and belly. The thief was still alive, but he was unable to shout out because he no longer had a throat; he was just writhing and burning from the inside out, with the scarf-pullers keeping hold from the two sides until the whole thing became a trickling live metal statue.

Uri shuddered.

“What if he hadn’t opened his mouth?”

“He would have choked,” the man who was seated nearer said. “But because the sentence was burning, not strangling, they would have forced the corpse’s mouth open and filled it with molten iron.”

“I can’t say I would be too happy to be burned alive,” the one sitting under the slit pondered. “I’d rather be strangled.”

“That’s not good either,” the other opined. “If done ineptly, that can drag on for a long time.”

“Stoning to death as well,” the one sitting under the slit. “They can pelt and pelt, but you’re still alive. Better to be strangled.”

“The best of all,” said the one seated more closely, “is if they chop off your head with a sword — a moment and it’s over.”

“That’s the foreign-style execution,” the one sitting under the slit scoffed. “No Edomite execution for me, thank you. I don’t want the angels having to search for the head that’s rolled away from my body when the time comes for resurrection; they’re quite capable of not noticing that they’ve stuck it onto the wrong body — a whore’s, say. No, thank you: I’d rather be strangled!”

Strange place, this Judaea; Jerusalem too must be a strange place. Uri smiled: he was there, though, even if he had seen nothing of it.

“Where is this prison exactly?” he asked.

“The high priests have their dwellings above us,” said the man sitting beneath the slit, indicating with his head the vaulting of the ceiling. “We’re being put up in a fair-sized building, to be sure. They don’t have it much better than us, now that we share residences,” he gave a hollow laugh.

“Where is this palace? In the Temple Square?”

“No, it’s in the Upper City. The Temple is nearby, to the northeast of here… Count five hundred steps and you’re there.”

Uri gazed up at the slit of a window, and he saw a tiny, faded-blue slice of the sky; the sun was no longer shining in. Even these affable rogues knew which way was northeast, and when the time comes for evening prayers that is the direction in which they would bow. From now on, neither would he have to bow toward Jerusalem when it came to prayer-time, because he was right there in the very middle, but toward the Temple just five hundred paces away.

“These were shops right here, where we are sitting,” said the one seated more closely, as he got to his feet to walk around. He was tall and powerfully built; he might easily have gotten a position in the Jewish police — indeed, had it not been for his Jewishness, even among Pilate’s litter bearers. “They rented the premises at a high rate from the high priests, but then the traders moved to the market square in front of Herod’s palace, because they could earn more there, both they and the high priests. There were more people. As a result something had to be done with the premises, and that is how it had become a prison.”

“It’s easier for them like this,” said the man sitting beneath the slit, and he too got up. He was not short but seemed a little on the pudgy side.

“Most recently the Sanhedrin has been sitting upstairs. The defendants don’t have to be escorted very far; better for them if we’re right here, underneath, in a shared building. There’s no need for a whole troop to take us all the way out to the Xystus, with us being sneaky enough to make a break for it along the way.”

Uri’s stomach rumbled. He had eaten nothing for a whole day now, and he could also use a chance to relieve himself. He looked around.

“Over there,” the plump one said, pointing to a corner opposite the door.

A broad-brimmed pitcher covered with a square slab of marble was standing there, the skewed slab indicating that it was not empty. Uri took the trouble to turn around and, pulling up his tunic with one hand and clutching his loosened loincloth with the other, finally managed to squat in such a way that the protruding excrement of the others would not rub off anywhere on him. He squatted with his back to the other prisoners, who just laughed at him. Maybe it would be best, he thought, if they were to hear me today.

Hours passed. It was getting dark outside.

“There you have it, boys,” said the plump one, sitting back down under the slit. “We’re going to be taking a shit in each other’s shit for another eleven days.”

The door opened and two guards entered; the one with a blazing torch in his hand stayed by the door, the other set two dishes down on the ground. In one dish there was some food, in the other water. The lankier rogue jumped toward the pitcher to hand it over to the guard, but he gestured: “Not now.” The guards left and locked the door.

Outside it became almost pitch-dark, though it was still just possible to make out that the two rogues were dabbling their hands in the dish of water before turning toward the pitcher and, bowing, saying the Sh’ma for that evening. Uri sprinkled water on his hand and said it with them. The pitcher happened to be to the northeast.

The two rogues then knelt down next to the dish and sniffed the food, like a dog would. They made a face and shook their heads before crouching back on their heels and cramming a chunk of the rations into their mouths. Uri did not move until they had finished and scrambled away from the dish. He then clambered to the dish, smelt it likewise, then prodded it with a forefinger. It was some sort of flatbread. He licked his finger: perhaps with a trace amount of honey in it, it was not something he had ever eaten before. He did not eat much, because they did not leave him a lot.

He scooped up some water with the palm of a hand and drank it.

In all truth, now was the time one ought really to sit down to supper.

It was the eve of Seder. They ought to have been given lamb like the rest of the Jewish world.

Of course, it could be that there had been a few morsels but the two rogues had polished them off.

He could see nothing; blindness must be something like this. He was alarmed.

“Can you see anything?” he asked.

“How the devil are we supposed to see, stupid, when it’s dark!” said the one sitting under the slit.

Uri’s mind was set at rest.

He was roused from his sleep by the rattling of keys. The door opened, and between two torchbearing guards two others led in, by the arms, an older, heavier man; the torches fluttered in the draft, and shadows flickered across the prisoner’s face and tunic. One of the guards then cut through with his dagger the cord that was pinning the fat man’s arms behind his back, then they left. Uri looked quickly to the side; his companions were still seated in their places. The new captive stood, not looking anywhere in particular. He was balding, and his bedraggled, graying beard was unkempt. He stood barefoot. The door was shut, and it became even darker than it had been previously. Nothing was said. The scanty straw rustled quietly under the new prisoner’s feet, then he took a seat next to Uri and sighed deeply.