György Spiró - Captivity

“Come here, come!” he heard Matthew’s voice say.

Uri gritted his teeth, drew himself up and headed toward them before coming to a standstill at a respectful distance.

“Stretch yourself out here, next to me!” a gruff voice declared, also in Greek. It was a bald, clean-shaven, burly man, wearing a tunic and with gleaming rings on his fingers; he smiled.

Uri made his way around the end of the table and sat down at the place that had been indicated. He looked up. Matthew returned his gaze, visibly uneasy. Uri nodded with a smile. Matthew also smiled, and he nodded back. Could that have been a wink? Uri glanced at the head of the table. An elderly, white-haired, bearded man was reclining on his side; he was in an ornamental, Eastern-style garment and bareheaded. Uri gave him a bow of acknowledgment, and the elderly man nodded back.

“There’s no need for me to introduce Matthew,” the plump man said. “Apart from him, at the head of the table is a good friend of mine, the king of Galilee, who is likewise curious about you, my dear Gaius.”

Uri kept a hold on himself.

At the head of the table was reclining Herod Antipas and next to him Pontius Pilate, the prefect of Judaea.

Herod Antipas was one of the sons of Herod the Great, and by virtue of that an uncle of Agrippa’s. He would have to watch out.

“It is a deep honor for me to be allowed into such distinguished company,” he managed to declare in a calm tone of voice.

“Just recline in comfort,” said Pilate. “I’m not going to quiz you on what you did over the feast days. I hope that you had a chance to rest yourself after the travails of your long journey. Unfortunately, I had many pressing matters to attend to. Passover is no holiday for me; I have to keep working even then, even harder than at other times, so it is only now that I am in a position to receive you. I hope your appetite will be whetted with strictly kosher food, given that there are three Jews present, and I, the sole non-Jew as always, will gladly accommodate to your customs.”

Uri set himself down, resting on one elbow like the other guests. It was an uncomfortable body position. He could not imagine how he was going to be able to eat like that; he was used to eating while squatting on his heels on the floor.

Servants brought a large gold bowl and set it down in front of Herod Antipas. He dabbled both hands in it, being followed by Matthew then Pilate and Uri, and they all dried their hands on table napkins. These were very fine, white cloths with curlicues of the same material embroidered into them. Uri took a close look at his own; there were no figures as such on it, just lines that twisted in on themselves so that nothing figurative would be seen. Pilate obviously used Jewish napkins.

Antipas stood up and turned toward the far end of the table; Matthew also got up and turned in the same direction. Uri also got up to turn toward the Temple, though he sacrilegiously glanced around to see where the pitcher might be. Pilate, still reclining, had lowered his head and immersed himself in thought so as not to disturb them. The three Jews — the king of Galilee, the pilot from Ostia, and the young Roman citizen — said the Sh’ma and then settled back in their places.

It came to Uri’s mind that in principle they were not supposed to eat as guests of a non-Jew or else they would become impure. But then there were many times en route that they had eaten at non-Jewish places, though the innkeepers invariably asserted that they served entirely kosher food and drink. Moreover, the Diaspora itself was unclean in principle and yet there were Jews living all over the world. Here, at the very heart of sacred and pure Jerusalem, all the ambiguities of Diaspora existence converged in a palace that had been built by half-Jewish Herod the Great and usurped by a non-Jew.

Servants came and poured wine into their goblets of murrhine glass. These were even bigger crystal goblets than in the Syracusan sawmill, each holding three or four units of wine.

“To your good health, my friends!” Pilate raised his glass. “Your good health, my fine Gaius Theodorus!”

Uri raised the full goblet, but it was too heavy for his weak arm, and his hand trembled. He tasted the wine as he reclined, but just a sip, and he took great care not to spill it on himself. A person can easily get drunk on an empty stomach. He needed to keep his wits about him; there was no watering down the wine here!

No, I had not been mistaken for somebody else. Matthew had told them all about me, including some things that were not true.

Salads and fruits on huge, marvelous bowls were brought in by servants, who then withdrew.

“I love eating,” said Pilate. “It’s no use my wife constantly prattling on about how I’m putting on weight all the time, my way of life is unhealthy, and I hardly exercise. I’m well aware of those things, but what am I to do when I can’t stand dieting?”

“It’s better to start a meal with pickled greens, salads, and the like before starting on meat, whether roasted or cooked,” Uri declared quite unexpectedly, as if he were reading it out.

He did not look across to the other side of the table, but he could tell that Matthew was surprised.

“How true!” exclaimed Pilate. “Celsus advises the same. As well as moderation. Sadly, though, I am going to be unable to resist all the many kinds of meat dishes this evening, and I would not advise that for you either, my dear Gaius. I’d love to be as slim as you are again! To be able to gorge myself without worries, because I still eat now, only uneasily! And I am often tormented by stomachaches.”

“That might well be due to the southern wind and spring,” Uri said by way of chatting, turning toward Pilate. “Celsus says that spring is the time for the onset of illnesses associated with the movement of humors…” He could almost see the text of the scroll of Celsus’s writings before his eyes, and, not even noticing that he’d switched to Latin, he went on: “Eyes stream, piles bleed, the digestive canal becomes inflamed, gallstones, dementia, angina, and nosebleeds all may arise, the tonsils become angry… Disorders of the joints and tendons are more common… As far as losing weight is concerned, one should bathe in saline hot water…”

A silence fell. Uri looked around. Matthew was looking at him aghast; Antipas also looked stony-faced. Uri felt a sudden sense of shame.

“My apologies for speaking,” he said in Greek.

“You did well to say it!” Pilate vigorously approved. “My own doctor also swears by Celsus, although of course he has adopted some procedures from Cassius and Erasistratus… He gets his annual fee of eighty thousand sesterces on the dot on the first day of January… It’s a lot, I know, but good physicians today cost a lot; the emperor’s physician gets three hundred thousand a year and finds even that too little, so I’m told, even though he does nothing, the lucky dog, because Tiberius has enjoyed excellent health all his livelong days and is in superb condition even now, I hear… I, on the other hand, overeat and, to be honest, there are times when I use an emetic, to be sure, even though Asclepiades does not advise it…”

“He was not in favor of purgation either,” Uri commented again, “whereas Celsus says that it is useful if you have to void strong medicaments… Though of course he does agree that it’s not good when it is employed for luxury’s sake.”

Matthew was still looking aghast. All he had ever seen in the young man was a tongue-tied, narrow-minded Jew, and now out of this had blossomed a loquacious Roman lazybones. Matthew shook his head in disbelief.

“Now, then, my dear Gaius,” said Pilate, turning his entire body to the left to see for himself, “what do you think about fever?”