György Spiró

Captivity

Excerpts from the novel

...

From BOOK TWO
Judea

He had a pounding headache, but the cold was even worse. He shivered, huddled up, and felt that he was lying on a thin layer of straw over stone.
He opened his eyes.
It was still dark in the room, which had a tall, vaulted ceiling. Two hefty-looking men sat on the stone floor with their knees drawn up. They rested their backs against the wall and kept staring at him.
"What's all this?" Uri asked in Greek
"Prison," answered one of the men in Aramaic.
Uri raised himself with difficulty, and when he managed to get on all fours, he tried moving his limbs, then turned his head this way and that. Nothing was broken.
He felt a strong but dull pain in the nape of his neck The builders had left small, palm-sized spaces between the blocks of stone all the way on top, and some light filtered through these chinks. To the left, in the wall facing the room's shuttered window, Uri noticed a door with iron bars.
Clearly, it could be opened only from outside. Uri got up and took a closer look at the window; it was cut into the wall under the vaulting, in the middle. As was his custom at home, he kept touching the wall, and even smelled it. The section under the window had pieces of rough-hewn stone smaller than those used in the other walls, and it reached only as far as the vaulting. The spaces between the stones were filled up generously with a cement-like material, which had trickled down and hardened. They must have thrown this part up later.
He walked around and felt the other walls, too. Near the lower end of the wall opposite the window, there was a long ledge-like protrusion on which one could sit. Here more or less square-shaped stones of equal height were placed next to one another. The spaces between them were filled with earth and pebbles.
What on earth could this have been before they turned it into a jail?
He sat down and tried to size up the two characters. They were young lads with coarse features. Although they were sitting, he could tell they were strong. Both wore tunics and coats. That's why they could lean against the cold wall. Where was his coat? It was in his sack. His father's coat. He really missed it now.
"How long have I been here?" he asked in Aramaic.
"They brought you in last night."
Uri looked up. Rays of sunlight frolicked high above the door, only there, grazing the wall at a slant and leaving the rest in the shade.
"It's morning now?"
"It will be noon soon."
The window then must have a northern or rather northeastern exposure.
Uri kept pressing the area around his stomach with his finger.
"Do they feed you here?"
"You slept through breakfast. There'll be supper."
"Wonderful."
He was testing one eye and then the other. That blow on the back of his neck didn't make them better. But they didn't seem any worse either.
He felt relieved. He thought of Matthew - who denounced him and got him in jail - with gratitude. Now I am where I belong, and he laughed happily.
The two men looked at each other.
Everything became clear to Uri.
There would still have been time in Rome to put his name in the passport, as Plotius said. He joined the delegation even later, and his name they did enter; only Uri's name was not in it. Matthew didn't even mention him to the magistrate the day before they left - that was the only time he could have gone and told him that he'd be travelling with six people, not five. Plotius did get on the list, though it was decided even later that he, too, would be coming. At the request of Agrippa, he, Uri, had been put on the list of the elders two days earlier. Still, Matthew didn't report him as an additional passenger. He could have done it when he
made sure they knew about Plotius, but he didn't.
Matthew had decided already then that once they got to Jerusalem, he was going to turn in the man he thought was Agrippa's spy.
Actually, he said as much in Casarea the evening when he, Matthew and Plotius were having a few cups of wine. He couldn't be too explicit, but Plotius had to know what he was talking about. Plotius also knew what was going to happen, but he didn't say a word - he agreed with Matthew.
It didn't hurt Uri that the two men he preferred over all the others in the group were the ones that betrayed him.
I am not cut out to be a member of such a delegation. Even prison is better.
At least it's a straightforward situation.
Uri had the feeling now that he wasn't afraid of anything. He'd make it out of here for sure, he wasn't in any kind of real danger. There were adventures waiting for him, the kind he would never have dreamed of. What Roman Jew could say that he was imprisoned, and in Jerusalem!
Uri laughed out loud.
He no longer had to cower among people of dubious intentions and slovenly appearance, who were also secretive and stuck in the world of petty political and business calculations.
I will never again be a member of any kind of delegation, he decided. No power on earth can force me to join one.
He noted gladly that his instincts had not abandoned him. He sensed all along that there was trouble ahead. He would have liked to believe that he was simply imagining things, but he wasn't. On the contrary, he always sensed what he was supposed to.
I am safe and sound!
He took deep breaths. The back of his neck still hurt, but he felt strong. He will tell his father that overnight he became an adult. This is just what happened to him, and it happened now.
"What's the custom here? Do they question the prisoners at all, or do they just let them rot in jail?"
After a moment's silence, the one sitting under the window said:
"Where are you from?"
"Rome."
"You don't say... Listen then. They must pass a sentence, so they have to hear you out. First, you say it was like this and like that, but you didn't do anything, in fact just the reverse; then somebody steps up announces the charges, and if there are witnesses, they'll hear them out, too. And then, one by one, the members of the court have their say. In a village three judges will do, in town there can be as many as twenty-three; and for a decision to be valid, there has to be at least a two-vote majority. They begin to recite the judgment at the two ends of the row of judges - first, the younger ones and then the older judges who are seated in the middle of the row. While all this is going on, you stand there facing them, remorse had made your hair grow long, as if you were in mourning, so you stand there with your head bowed, looking repentant even if you had pleaded innocent. If someone spoke in your favour, he can speak once more before the vote, but the ones against you can't speak again. Then the vote is taken. If you are acquitted, you can go straight home; but if they find you guilty, they won't announce the sentence until the following day, and if that day happens to be a holiday or the Sabbath, then only afterward."
"I don't understand," Uri said. "If three judges are enough, how can there be a two-vote majority?"
"In that case, there isn't," the other said. "Either the judgment is unanimous, or they call in two more judges, and from that point on there must be a two-vote majority."
"Twenty-three judges?" Uri asked. "Even in a small town?"
"The towns aren't that small. Where there are five hundred adult males, you have a town. That amounts to at least fifteen hundred or two thousand people, in all probability a lot more. Our towns aren't so small."
"A booster for the home front," Uri thought cheerfully.
"There are that many judges in one town?" he asked. Or there are also attorneys among them? Who are sometimes prosecutors and sometimes defense attorneys? Is that what you mean?"
They didn't understand what he was asking. Uri tried to describe what a prosecutor was, what a defence lawyer does, and what a judge is supposed to do.
Eventually they got it.
"We don't have such people here," the one sitting under the window said.
"There are men, there are tailors, blacksmiths, carpenters, tentmakers, robbers,
thieves - you know, people like that." He laughed at his own joke and then continued:
"If they have to judge a case, the master sends for them. Then they go to the prayer house and sit in judgment. And if there isn't a two-vote majority, they keep summoning more judges, until there is one. Twenty-three is the most they can have, and if they can't come to a decision even then, the case goes to the Sanhedrin, who meet right here above us... But even they don't meet as a body right away, they also begin with just three people... and keep adding more, up to seventy-one. But that rarely happens; sooner or later the two-vote majority is reached locally.
"I never heard of a case that couldn't be decided where it took place," said the one sitting closer.
"And that master... how does he have the right to invite outsiders to judge.
Is he the archisynagogos?"
They didn't understand the word. Uri explained that he was referring to the leader of a congregation. They shook their heads.
"But that would be the master; it's that simple."
"And that is how he makes his living?"
"Of course not," said the one sitting under the window. "He is not allowed to accept money for teaching or for giving counsel or adjudicating a case. He has an occupation: he is a tiller of land, or burns lime or makes furniture - that's why he is a master."
"Or he steals or robs," said the other one.
They all laughed.
This was a different world, all right.
"Did you two have your trial already?"
"Not me," said the one sitting under the window.
"Me neither."
"When will it be?"
The one sitting under the window looked up toward the light.
"Either today, very soon, or after Passover."
"If it's not today," said the other one, "then it will be more than a week from now."
The earliest date was a week from the following Monday. In eleven days, in other words. The court was in session Mondays and Thursdays. On other days there were no trials.
In short, the court met in Jerusalem the same day it did in the countryside:
on Sunday. If they didn't come by sundown today, Thursday, then, because of Passover, they couldn't have it next Monday or Thursday either - those days were only half-holidays, but they couldn't hold trials. There were many things one could do on half-holidays that were forbidden on full-fledged holidays, for instance, hold a burial or heal the sick, but a court of law could not meet.
He wouldn't like sitting around for eleven days. Let them come today and clear up this whole thing, after which he'd go back to Rome. He didn't yet know how.
Of course, if they fed him, he could bear to stay for eleven more days.
"What did you do?" asked the one sitting under the window.
"Nothing," Uri said and laughed again. "You won't believe it, but nothing."
"You're right. We don't believe you."
"Doesn't matter," Uri said. "My name is Gaius Theodorus."
The other two didn't say anything. Uri shrugged his shoulder.
"Why are you here?"
"We're also innocent," said the one sitting under the window sarcastically.
"But we're being accused of committing robbery."
"So I am locked up with robbers; that's funny. And they can't even rob me; I have nothing."
"That's a serious accusation."
"Serious, my foot," the other said. "At most we'll be sentenced to four or five years of slavery, and after our time is up, we'll be free without having to buy our freedom. We're not lousy little thieves; we're robbers."
"Rather, they say we are," added the one sitting under the window sarcastically.
"But first they have to prove it."
Uri thought he didn't hear them right, or maybe they used words differently here; so he asked what they thought was the difference between a thief and a robber.
The two of them looked at each other in amazement. But then the one sitting under the window proceeded to explain, shouting helpfully and stressing each syllable so that Uri would understand that a thief steals and a robber takes away by force.
Uri did hear it right.
"A robber gets a milder sentence than a thief?" he asked with great surprise.
They again looked at each other.
"Are you sure you're a Jew?"
"Of course I am."
"Then you are an idiot," said the one sitting closer and, taking a deep breath, explained, "The thief not only steals but offends the Everlasting God, because he hides from His visage and commits evil in stealth; he seeks to hide his deed from the Almighty. But the robber attacks courageously, openly, and therefore does not offend the Everlasting, because he doesn't hide anything from Him. The thief's sin is therefore much more serious."
A fine, clean, religious explanation, Uri thought. They've got different laws here.
In Rome's Jewish community, a robber was punished by death, while a thief was usually sentenced to slavery for several years or permanently. There were two further classes: as a slave, he could stay in the Yonder district; or he was sold in the Italian provinces - in Puteoli, for instance - which had a well-known slave market. Shipments of humans arrived in its harbour from every corner of the empire.
If the guilty Jew happened to be a citizen of Rome, then, in theory at least, the Jewish court's verdict had to be approved by a Roman tribunal, but in practice the Curia gave every Jewish verdict its nod; it was plenty busy with other things. The death sentences were also usually approved by the Latins, and if once in a while there was a retrial, neither the defendant nor the witnesses were invited; the verdict was formal, and approval almost automatic. However redundant this process may have seemed, the Curia reserved the right to retry a case, because it could happen that for political reasons they wanted to save a Jew who'd been condemned to death - he may be the favourite of an influential senator or of the emperor himself: a much favoured actor, a lover or some such person. Then the Curia dug in its heels, until of course a large bribe was offered.
"What kind of sentence does a thief receive in your courts?" Uri asked.
"A death sentence."
Must be a new law.
He learned back in Rome that in the past a thief had to repay four times the value of the stolen goods, and when he did, they let him go. But then Herod the Great's decree stipulated that a thief had to be sold into slavery; that's how a whole lot of Jewish slaves, the "new ones", ended up in Rome. After the death of Herod the Great, the Roman prefects put an end to this practice.
"Once," said the one sitting closer, "I saw a thief's execution. Not a pretty sight."
"Did they stone him?" asked the one sitting under the window.
"He was burned to death."
The one sitting closer recounted the incident with much relish. Everyone from the village was there, women and children included, so they could all witness the event. Actually, they were told to be there, so they would learn from it. The blacksmith, over a great fire, heated up a piece of iron in a dish, and when the iron was already dripping, the tied-up thief was made to stand. After wrapping a scarf around his neck, two people began to pull on the scarf on both sides. The thief was strong and could stand it for a long time without breathing, but finally he did open his mouth and gasped for air. And then the blacksmith's assistant poured the hot iron down his throat; he had him drink it, and sure enough, the thief's insides burned up; the red-hot metal came oozing out of his burst-open chest. He was still alive but couldn't scream, because he didn't have a throat anymore, he was just writhing and burning from inside out, and couldn't fall down either, so he was propped up by the two who'd been pulling on the scarf. He turned into a live, dripping metal statue.
Uri gave a shiver.
"And what if he doesn't open his mouth?" he asked.
"Then he suffocates," said the one sitting closer, "but since the verdict was burning and not choking, the corpse's mouth is forced open and the liquid iron poured down, for that was the verdict."
"I wouldn't like to burn to death," mused the one sitting under the window.
"I'd prefer choking."
"That's not good either," opined the other. "If they don't do it right, it can take a long time."
"Stoning also takes a long time," said the one sitting under the window. "They keep throwing and throwing, and you're still alive. I'd rather have them choke me to death."
"The best," said the one sitting closer, "is to have your head chopped off with one clean swipe."
"That's a foreign way of doing it," said the one sitting under the window with contempt. "I want no part of an Edomite execution. Come the resurrection, the angels would have to look for my head, which may have rolled away somewhere, or match my body with another head, maybe a whore's. No, thank you; I'd rather have them choke me to death."
Judea... what a strange place. Jerusalem must be strange too. Uri smiled: he is inside the city, yet he hasn't seen any of it.
"Where exactly is our prison located?" he asked.
"The high priests live right above us," said the one sitting under the window, motioning with his head toward the vaulted ceiling. "A nice big building this one.
They don't have it much better up there; we live in the same house now." He laughed haltingly as he said this.
"Where is this palace, in the Temple Square?"
"No. This is the upper city. But the Temple is close by, northeast of here. You count to five hundred while you walk, and you're there."
Uri gazed up at the tiny slit of a window and saw a small, blurry patch of blue; the sun no longer shone through the crevice. These amiable rogues also knew which way was northeast; and when it was be time to say the evening prayers, they'd be bowing in that direction. From now on, he wouldn't have to bow toward Jerusalem while praying; for, he was inside the city, in the very centre of it. He'd have to bend his knees toward the Temple, which was a mere five hundred paces from here.
"There used to be shops where we are now," said the one sitting closer, who got up cumbersomely to take a little walk. He was tall and muscular, and could easily have been hired by the Jewish police force; and if he weren't a Jew, he could be one of the carriers of Pilate's litter. "The shopkeepers paid a high rent to the priests. But then these merchants moved to the marketplace in front of Herod's palace; they make more money there, and so do the priests; business is brisker. Something had to be done with those shops, so they put up a wall and turned them into a prison."
"It's more convenient for them this way," the one sitting under the window put in, and he, too, got up. He wasn't short either, but looked kind of chubby. "Lately the Sanhedrin have been holding their meetings upstairs. The accused don't have far to travel. It's better to have us right in the same building. They don't need a whole squadron, like in the old days, to march us all the way to the Xystos. Cheeky devils that we are, we might slip away."
Uri's stomach rumbled - he hadn't eaten anything for a full day. He also had to relieve himself, so he looked around."Over there," said the chubby one, pointing to the corner on the other side of the room. A wide-lipped crock stood there, covered with a square-shaped sheet of marble. This lid was off centre, suggesting that the crock wasn't empty. Uri kept turning and fumbling; while holding his pulled-up tunic in one hand and his untied loin-cloth in the other, he tried to squat down on the crock in such a way that the pile of the previous user would not get smeared all over his skin. He crouched with his back to the other two, who were having a hearty chuckle. It wouldn't be a bad thing if they started questioning me already tonight, he thought.
Hours passed. It was getting dark outside.
"Well, boys," said the chubby one as he sat down again under the window, "for the next eleven days we'll be shitting in each other's shit."
The door opened. Two guards entered, one of them, holding a torch, remained at the door, while the other put two bowls on the floor. One contained some food, the other was filled with water. The taller jailbird made for the crock, wanting to give it to the guard, but he waved him away: Not now. Then the guards left and locked the door behind them.
It was almost completely dark outside, but Uri could still see the two cellmates dip their hands in the water bowl and then turning in the direction of the crock and bowing repeatedly, recite the evening Shema. Uri, too, splashed water on his hands and joined the other two in prayer. Toward the crock was northeast.
The cellmates knelt down beside the food bowl and smelled it like two dogs.
Each made a face and shook his head. Then they sat on their heels and stuffed a solid piece of food in their mouths. Uri didn't move. The two jailbirds finished eating and crawled away from the bowl. It was Uri now who crawled over to the bowl; he too, smelled it and even poked it with his finger. It was some kind of cake; he licked his finger. Maybe there was even a drop of honey in it, he never had this before. He didn't eat much, mainly because they didn't leave him a whole lot.
With his hand, he scooped up some water from the bowl.
By right he should start eating around this time.
It was the first night of Passover. They should have gotten lamb, it's what Jews eat at the Seder everywhere.
Maybe there were a few bites of meat in that cake, but the jailbirds must have gobbled it up.
He saw nothing around him. This is what blindness must be like. He got scared.
"You can't see anything, either?" he asked.
"How the hell should we see, you nitwit, when it's dark," said the one sitting under the window.
Uri calmed down.
Later he woke up to loud knocking. The door opened, and between two guards with torches, another two led in an older, heavier man, holding him by the arm.
The torches blazed in the draft; shadows danced on the prisoner's face and tunic.
One of the guards cut the rope on the heavy man's wrists, which were tied behind his back, and then they both left. Uri quickly looked around, his cellmates remained in their places. The new prisoner just stood there, he didn't look anywhere.
He was balding, and his greying, unkempt beard gave him a scruffy look; he stood there barefoot. The door was closed now, so it was even darker than before. They were all silent. The hay strewn on the stone floor crunched softly under the new prisoner's feet. Then he sat down to the left of Uri and heaved a deep sigh.
"A man can't even sleep here," said the one sitting under the window.
It was quiet again. The new prisoner's breathing seemed laboured.
"Did they beat you?" asked the one sitting under the window.
"No," the new prisoner said. He had a deep, pleasant voice, and though he spoke softly, it sounded loud enough. Judging by his accent, he could have been from Galilee.
"Let's sleep," the other said, who sat to the right of Uri.
It was quiet, but all four were up.
"What did you do?" asked the one sitting under the window.
"I caused a disturbance," said the new prisoner.
They were all silent.
"Not enough of a disturbance unfortunately," he later added.
"Why aren't we asleep?" the other asked rather angrily.
"You go to sleep, we'll talk," said the one sitting under the window. "What was the disturbance?"
"We went up to the Temple Square, to the women's courtyard, last Tuesday, to buy the doves, and I saw they were cheating. I told them to stop cheating, but they went on doing it. Then I turned a few tables on them.
They were quiet again
"And where did they keep you since Tuesday?"
"Nowhere, we were allowed to leave. We are staying outside the city."
"I don't get it. They didn't arrest you then, on Tuesday?"
"No. We went back on Wednesday, and I told them again not to cheat, because they were still cheating. The guards came over, we argued, and then we went home. They came over tonight, to the place where we are staying. I told the others to run, but they didn't give them chase; I was the only one they caught.
"I still don't get it," said the other, to the right of Uri. "They looked for you afterwards, so they could arrest you? Why didn't they arrest you right away?"
"I don't know," the new prisoner said.
"It couldn't have been much of a disturbance," said the one sitting under the window. "Our police are quick to arrest you even for something minor, especially on the Temple Square. One wrong word and they move in. They get a reward for it, especially on a holiday; extra money for each arrest, I know.
"What do you mean by cheating?" inquired Uri.
"What he means is," said the one sitting under the window, answering for the new prisoner, "that the money changers charge more for the exchanges than the kalubon."
"What is that?" asked Uri.
"The exchange fee: one silver meah," said the one sitting by the window, "that is, one sixth of a zuz. You know how much a zuz is?"
"I don't."
The two began to stir, getting rather excited
"One zuz is half a shekel, or to put it another way, a zuz is one dinar or a like amount of Attic drachma, or four sistertia... And one silver meah is worth two pondions. So how many sestertia is the kalubon, big boy?"
Uri tried to figure it out, but he got all mixed up.
"Give it to him in perutah, that's the smallest copper coin. The little dimwit must have handled that... Thirty-two perutah: that's how much the kalubon fee is."
"The perutah is also called lepton," Uri said proudly. "This much I know."
"No other coin was ever in your hand, down-and-outer that you are," said the one sitting closer contemptuously.
"So, how much is it in sistertia?" asked the one sitting under the window.
"I don't know."
The robbers laughed; they couldn't get over somebody not being able to do the arithmetic.
"Two-thirds of a sistertius," said the new prisoner.
There was a short silence.
"That's correct," the one sitting under the window said glumly, disappointed that somebody had put an end to his little game.
They were silent now.
"How much more do they charge over there?"
"As much as seven or eight pondions," said the one sitting under the window.
"I even saw them asking for seven or eight tresiths. And those morons don't even notice it. They come from villages and haven't the foggiest idea."
"Try to understand, birdbrain: one meah equals only two pondions and one and one-third tresith. Instead of one-sixth of a zuz, they rake in two-thirds. Four times as much. These country bumpkins come into town, and they're clueless as to how much things cost, like you there; it's the only time the peasants have money in their hands, so of course they get clipped."
"Half the profit goes to the high priests," said the other one; judging from his noisy movements, he must have sat up. "Of course, they cheat. And it's mostly the high priests, the rotten foreigners."
"And they cheat with the doves, too," said the new prisoner. "They charge twice as much for the doves, since it's supposed to replace the paschal lamb. But they are not allowed to do that. I told them to charge the regular price, but it was no use." He sounded tired and resigned. "They are a shameless bunch, feeding off people's faith. And the miserable poor give them all they have, since they need the two doves for the offering..."
"The third-dove tax," the other said sarcastically, "that's what people call it.
And it ends up in the priests' pockets... They're the biggest thieves, the high priests. That's why they live here, above the prison... They know where they belong... Right here, next to us. They're bigger scoundrels than we are, that's why their rooms are so much bigger than ours."
They were quiet again. Uri was sorry that he hadn't yet handled Palestinian money and he didn't pay attention in Casarea when his companions were arguing about the value of the local currency. Now, at least, he knew that one meah is two-thirds of a sestertius. First chance he gets, he'll tell them.
He smiled. He will probably never see them again, thank the Lord, blessed be His name.
"Did you come from Galilee?" asked the one sitting under the window.
"Yes," the new prisoner said, somewhat startled.
"You pay taxes there, right?"
"Yes."
"Wait a minute. Then you changed money on your own, for the sacrificial doves, in which case they weren't supposed to ask for kalubon. You were entitled to change money without a fee. For free! Did you know that?"
"No, I didn't," the new prisoner said, sounding very tired.
"What cheek," cried the one sitting under the window. "Rotten bastards! Scum of the earth! But they'll never end up here. Because they make sure the high priests get their cut. Oh, the dirtbags!"
When the morning light appeared, Uri awoke with a start. The new prisoner was praying quietly, on his knees, bowing in the direction of the crock. The other two were still asleep, with their coats pulled over their heads, facing the wall. Uri couldn't stop shivering; he didn't have a coat. His side hurt, and his back, and his shoulder. The new prisoner didn't have a coat either, only a linen tunic, but he didn't appear to be cold. Perhaps praying kept him warm. While praying, he looked at Uri. There he was, this older man, one step away, Uri saw his face clearly in the early morning light. His mussed up hair was turning gray, and he
had beautiful, clear, light-coloured eyes, gray perhaps, set deep in his swollen face. At one time he may have been a handsome man. He's probably as old as my father, Uri thought and gave him a smile. The new prisoner nodded toward him and continued praying.
Then the door flew open, the torchbearers came in, pulled the cover off the two men who were sleeping, held the torch to each one's face, and finally came to a stop in front of the new prisoner. He rose. The guards grasped him by the arm on both sides, and led him away. Once more they bolted the door from outside."Let's get some more sleep," said the one lying to the right of Uri and turned back toward the wall.

György Spiró
is a novelist, playwright, essayist, poet, translator and Slavic scholar. As a child he spent some years with his family in Belgrade and studied Russian and Serbo-Croat - in addition to Hungarian - at Eötvös University in Budapest. His books include five novels, collections of plays, short stories and essays, a volume of poems, a book on Miroslav Krlez·a and a book on role-doublings in Shakespeare's plays. His translations include plays by G.B. Shaw, Wyspian´ski and Gombrowicz. A collection of his short stories has appeared in French translation, a novel in French and Czech. His plays have been staged successfully both in Hungary and abroad. The excerpts here printed are from his latest novel Fogság (Captivity), Budapest, Magvető, 2005, 770 pp. A review of the novel and an interview with the author also appear in this issue.