György Spiró - Captivity

“Let’s get back to sleep,” said the man lying to Uri’s right, and rolled back to face the wall.

Later in the morning, they were given fresh water and matzos, and also at last they took the pitcher out. The man sitting under the slit tried to teach Uri the values of all the currencies that were in use in Palestine, but Uri soon got bored; he was never going to have any money in this land. The rogues asked him how much he had been making in Rome, and how he had gotten there. Uri explained that he was a member of the delegation bringing money from Rome, and the robbers shut up for a long time at that.

“So you’re a Roman citizen, then?” the other man, the lankier one, asked.

“Yes, I am,” said Uri.

“Why didn’t you tell them?” the other exclaimed. “Jews are not allowed to arrest you!”

“I didn’t exactly have a chance to discuss the matter,” said Uri. “They banged me on the head.”

“Tell the guards when they come in this evening,” the man sitting under the slit advised. “They’re going to be petrified and take you straight off to a better place, better than this.”

Uri shook his head. He did not hold out much hope of any favors being done for him; Matthew, the head of the delegation, had been the one who informed on him. But he would somehow weather the ten days among these likable robbers. He would ask for a cloak.

It must have been around the second hour of the day when the door opened and five soldiers came in. They halted in front of the two robbers, who scrambled to their feet.

“Out with you,” ordered one of the soldiers.

“But it’s Friday,” protested the lanky one. “There’s no court hearing on a Friday.”

“Out with you,” the soldier repeated, prodding them with the tip of his spear.

The door then closed so swiftly that Uri did not get a chance to ask for a cloak, or to take leave of his cell mates.

He was now left alone in the cell.

He stood up, and began to move around.

He would ask not only for a cloak but also for something to read. He would manage well enough here; it did not matter if no one was brought in on account of the feast. During the two months since they had set out, he had no time on his own to read. He pondered on what scroll he should ask for, and whether they would bring it, but in the end it did not matter: anything so long as it was lengthy.

As it grew dark a guard brought the empty pitcher, along with water and two good-sized blocks of matzo. Uri got to his feet.

“Excuse me, sir, but I have no cloak… and I’d like something to read.”

The guard stared in amazement.

“No one reads here,” he said, and went out.

Uri grew dejected. This was going to make it a long ten days, so he made up his mind to recite from memory the Iliad or the Aeneid . He liked the Iliad above all.

He heard a dreadful horn blast. He froze; it was as if a fatally wounded lion had roared in his ear. What could that be? Surely a shofar did not sound like that? Had Passover started?

No one came in until Monday morning. Then he gave up the struggle. He was going almost mad every time he was unable to recall how a line went: he could see the letters in front of him, but it seemed as though precisely the lines in question had been deleted out of some sort of spite. It seemed his memory was not as good as he had supposed.

On Tuesday some kind of cloak was tossed to him, and he instantly wrapped it around himself; he felt feverish and was coughing. His gums were bleeding, his stool was bloodstained, and his stomach ached. He needed to take life more easily, he thought; I should not be worrying when I’m innocent.

On Wednesday he decided to do physical exercises as the Greeks did. There were several Greek-style gymnasiums in Rome; it was possible to look into the garden through the fence. Uri had kept his eyes peeled, sometimes peering through the cracks between his fingers, staring at how rich Roman youths ran around and stooped. Now here was an opportunity to strengthen his body; there was plenty of time. He toiled away until the evening, doing every exercise several hundred times, overdoing it so much that he spent the whole of Thursday just lying flat on his back.

Just three days to go, he thought on Friday morning; on Monday they will come for me and take me out of here. Whatever crime they suspect me of, they are not going to leave me here at state expense. He was still coughing, but his temperature had gone down.

On Friday afternoon he was given meat, decently roasted lamb. That and a pitcher — and in this one there was wine! He was able to celebrate the Sabbath in befitting fashion, albeit alone. That had to be a good sign: they had not forgotten him and did not want him to get totally run down.

Together with the meat they also brought dates, figs, and grapes, and those had even been washed. He also got some freshly baked barley bread instead of that sticky pap! Uri determined that this must be three days’ rations, the three whole days of the festival, and so it proved to be: for two and a half days nobody came in. On Sunday evening, the guard set down a nice, big dish of fruit and said, “They will be coming for you tonight.”

He took away the pitcher and did not bring another in its place.

At last.

He walked up and down the cell, tapping the walls. He wanted to imprint the place on his memory so as never to forget it. He summoned up the conversations that he had conducted with the robbers and the new prisoner so as not to forget them either. He was somewhat surprised at the affection in which he held them, even going so far as to have developed a fondness for this gloomy, cool cell. It had been his dwelling place in Jerusalem, he reflected, with a twinge of emotion.

Outside, evening was drawing in. All of a sudden the shofar sounded; to him it sounded as if it was coming from very close by. It had to be from the roof of the Temple that it was blown: it gave a terrible, raucous, penetrating noise.

That marked the end of Passover.

That night they came for him. He was not bound but led by the elbows from both sides. They went up a story to the first floor; torches burned on the walls. They reached a long, wide corridor, and the decorative marble floor under the bare soles of his feet felt warm; it was heated. He was led into a room with a real window, so he peered out into the dark with his eyes narrowed on the off chance that he might be able to see a bit of the city, but the guards turned him around. They let go of him and went away.

Uri found himself in front of a youngish man in military garb; he must have been a high-ranking officer, and he looked stern. A few soldiers, who might well be subalterns, were loitering farther off.

“Give him a good scrubbing,” the high-ranking officer said, “and a decent rub with oils.”

Silence fell. The commanding officer stepped a little closer and started to sniff. Uri bit his lip to stop himself from laughing.

“Not too foul,” he declared. “Get him straightened up, but nothing to eat, mind you!”

He swung around on his heels and strode off.

Uri was led back out into the corridor. They went down another flight of stairs and reached a lovely interior garden decorated with Greek columns and stocked with carefully tended plants; that too was lit by torches. There was a door on one side, and they entered. Uri’s nostrils were assailed by the odor of steaming water. He breathed a deep sigh of relief.

The waist-high water in the basin, which was lined with marble mosaics, was tepid, and he took great pleasure in being able to take a dip again in the nude. Around the basin lounged sleepy soldiers whose features he could not make out due to the distance and the steam, but they were of no interest anyway. He floated on the surface of the water. The ceiling of the baths block was lined with slates of transparent crystal, and Uri could make out a dim twinkle of faint stars.