György Spiró - Captivity

The strategos barked something out. The guards stepped up to Uri and to his great amazement did not set him back in the row but escorted him away toward the bronze gate in the eastern wall.

From there Uri could see little of what was happening to the other accused. They too circled the altar a few times, but none of them as many as seven times. Uri was standing opposite the altar and the east side of the Temple that loomed high behind it. With his eyes narrowed, and through the slits between his fingers, he made another attempt to estimate their size. He then looked at the men, who were standing excitedly and fixedly watching the accused as they circled the altar. Nobody looked at him, perhaps because he was standing close to them and they did not wish to stare intrusively.

When all the accused had gone around the altar, the strategos and the two elderly men sauntered over to the bronze gate, where the guards led the accused. They seemed to be somewhat relieved, no longer weeping and shrieking aloud, only sniveling. What Uri read from their faces was resignation and exhaustion.

As he went past, the strategos took another look at his face. Uri nodded, and the strategos snatched his gaze away in confusion, moving on further.

They retraced the same route that they had come by back to the Antonia. Uri now felt more secure in walking on top of the colonnades; he was right at the back of the line, with two guards behind him.

They halted in the corridor, with the others going on before finally disappearing at the turn at the end.

The strategos, with the two elderly men behind, approached Uri. They looked at him with amazement.

“We ask you to excuse us,” said the strategos, “but we had to follow the correct procedure. Until a decision is reached on your case, you will be extended our hospitality, and not in any way as a prisoner. I can promise that the decision will be made soon; after that you may move around as you choose in Judaea.”

Uri was relieved. He did not understand why the strategos had asked his forgiveness, but as far as he was concerned, that was not the important thing.

“When is my delegation going back to Rome?” he asked.

The strategos, who was already about to move on, looked back.

“They set off this morning,” he said. “You could not go with them in view of the investigation.”

“So when can I go after them? Maybe I shall be able to catch up with them while they wait for a boat in Caesarea…”

The strategos hesitated before coming out with it:

“You will not be able to go after them for the time being. It’s a dangerous trip for someone on his own, and we have no spare people to accompany you. I’ve already promised you that a decision will soon be reached.”

“You will come to no harm,” the double-chinned elderly man spoke. “A few weeks more and you will be able to travel back to Rome. Meanwhile, life here is also interesting.”

They withdrew. Uri looked at the guards.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

The guards did not answer.

This time he was taken to a charming small room, which had a Roman-style couch, with an expensive Oriental carpet as a cover, and a nice little table. The conspicuously narrow window started at chest height and, to judge from the way the light was falling, looked to the east, not toward Temple Square.
Uri looked through the window, leaned out, and narrowed his eyes.

He had expected to have a view of Jerusalem and Temple Square, but all he could see was the inner court of the Antonia Fortress. He was looking from the first floor, and even the parts of the building situated between the high towers were some five stories high. The inner court was entirely paved; for all Uri’s squinting there was nobody and nothing to see down there. The windows were small, as if built like that for the purpose of firing arrows.

He did not have long to wait; guards came and took him out to the corridor.

They went down to the ground floor, where he was shown into a room.

A young Jew clothed in a cloak was seated at a table, looking as if he either were a hunchback or simply had a negligent way of holding himself.

“My greetings, Gaius Theodorus!” he said in Greek. “Take a seat.”

Uri sat down on a stool opposite the table. How young he is, thought Uri, only three or four years older than me, if I’m not mistaken.

“I am pleased to be able to inform you,” the man went on in a neutral official tone, “that the high priests appreciate and are disposed to accept your request that, like your nostalgic fellow men of the Diaspora, you would like to become more thoroughly acquainted with Judaea, the land of your ancestors, and you wish to stay here for a while. They have designated as your place of residence a village, Beth Zechariah by name, which has an exceptionally pleasant climate, snuggled in attractive hilly country. You will set off today with two escorts.”

“I never asked for that favor,” said Uri. “I want to go home to Rome!”

“That is perilous on your own,” the young man replied calmly. “The delegation has already set off; we would not like you to risk your safety on your own.”

“In other words, I’m being exiled!” Uri exclaimed.

“There is no such punishment in Jewish law,” the man declared. “We have no such thing as the aquae et ignis interdictio , or banishment, and anyway no one has passed sentence on you. How could we? You’re a Roman citizen, and only a Roman court can bring charges against you.”

“Yet that is precisely what you’ve done just now!”

“I’m not passing sentence, simply chatting with you. And rest assured, I’m a Roman citizen myself.”

“What about my interrogation?”

“That was not a court hearing but a logging of information. The main thing is that on the lie detector test you proved innocent.”

Uri was aghast.

“You stood your ground on what you had asserted!” said the young man, not without a certain amount of respect. “No red spots broke out on your face. That’s rarely the case; they usually appear even on those who are innocent.”

Uri’s heart beat massively; he took a deep breath and rapidly exhaled.

If he had known that beforehand, he was quite sure that red spots would have covered his whole body as he circled the altar. He already felt his face was burning.

There was a silence. Uri gathered himself.

“I would like to speak with Pilate!”

“That, unfortunately, will not be possible. The prefect set off back to Caesarea this morning.”

“But that’s where I want to go!”

“We have no one to escort you there.”

“Is someone going to escort me to that village?”

“To there — yes, certainly.”

Uri pondered.

“May I write a letter to my father?” he inquired.

“You may,” said the young man, “but there’s no point: in Rome the delegates will relate to him what has happened. What happened is that you were captivated by the spell of the Holy Land and you decided to spend a few months among us. Elderly men in the Diaspora willingly resettle here to make this their grave, but there are also a fair number of young people — more than we know where to put them. There is nothing special about your request, or at most only that your case was brought to the front of the queue for a decision, and a favorable one at that. I’m not a native of Jerusalem either, and I had to petition to be allowed to live near the Temple; I had to wait years for the permit. Consider yourself lucky, Gaius Theodorus.”

The young man’s words were meant to be taken sarcastically, but the tone of his voice was not. Uri looked at him and stared, and it was then he noticed: he was sitting there in front of him but he could not register the man’s features, as if he were faceless — perhaps because he was seeking to fuse with his office. His look is screened off, he’s not looking at me, the person, but looking at a task. Uri strained to see. He was a black-haired, cross-eyed man with an olive complexion.