It was about time he started to think about his own life.
What should he turn his hand to? What should he do to earn a crust of bread, and where?
That mood did not pass after a day or so: his low spirits proved long lasting. He thought of Flaccus, the prefect; he must be feeling something like this nowadays too.
Come to think of it, I might just as well be a prefect somewhere. A strategos in Jerusalem with Tija, serving as his chief of staff in the Roman prefecture. He roared with laughter. He was seated on the top of the Paneion, Greeks light-heartedly chatting all around and among them travelers from distant lands, who were overjoyed to be here and in their delight laughed back at him.
No human occupation held any attraction for him now. How clear he had been when he arrived in Alexandria that he wanted to train as a goldsmith or diamond cutter.
Had he been wasting his time? He had read so many scrolls. Historical works, literature, commentaries on Homer, the poetic theories of amateurish bunglers, dead science. He had done brilliantly on his exams. If his knowledge of geometry had been better, if he had a better grasp of the conical segments, he could find employment as a land surveyor. That was good job, at least in Egypt it was. But then again, in Rome as a Jew?
You’ll find no bigger impostor than me in the land of the living! Such a nonsensical gaffe! I was almost executed in Jerusalem as a supposed spy of Agrippa’s, whereas here I was pampered and sucked up to as long as that tool, that despicable Agrippa, that quarter-Jewish political vermin whom I never saw in my life, remained alive and heir presumptive of the Great Jewish Kingdom.
The emperor was restored to health, thanks be to the Eternal One, to Jupiter, to Zeus, to Serapis, or whoever. The baths reopened, taverns swung their entrances wide open as speedily as the tarts did their legs. Life came roaring back explosively, as after an overlong winter, and rowdy gangs of troopers, among them soldiers of the two legions stationed in Egypt, terrorized the whole city; Flaccus finally dragged himself out of his palace; he was seen carousing here, getting plastered there. No one who braved the streets was safe.
The Greeks mumbled their prayers of thanks in their shrines and the Jews in their synagogues, and there was nothing left of Alexandria. Antonia’s death did not just mark the end of an era, but also the end of the most wonderful city that was ever built. Uri could see this, but he kept it to himself. Not that anyone was curious, but even if asked for his opinion, he would not have let on.
He was not in mourning for the Alexandria which had once been, but for the city as he had imagined it on his arrival. In any case, he had not been able to witness the golden age, three centuries before, when poetry and life in Alexandria had been the genuine article, he had only vague notions of what it might have been like.
His illusions had been shattered; his hopes had proved misplaced.
Philo and Tija returned to the city toward the end of the summer, along with the Greek students who returned to whoop it up much as before. Uri hung out with them; he had plenty of time. He read nothing and out of sheer boredom would have gone anywhere, but the wonder had ended. He smiled and nodded as he listened to Sotades, Hedylos, and the others recount their summer adventures, and took no offense at their neglecting to ask him about his own adventures.
Philo acted as if nothing had happened. He told Uri — his favorite mute interlocutor — where he stood with his latest work, which he had spent the summer writing. Uri nodded, occasionally interjecting with a wise comment or suggesting a modification, which Philo would acknowledge, here irately, there with gratitude, just as he had done before, but the matter was no longer genuine: on Uri’s part the devoted affection had gone, and he felt that the same was true on Philo’s part. Philo was continuing to work on reconciling Greek and Jewish theology, and in this particular work he was assuring his hoped-for readers, the Greeks, that the Messiah would be coming for them too, sooner rather than later.
This is just what it is like, Uri realized, when a marriage goes wrong but neither party wishes to face up to it, delaying for a few months until the inevitable bill of divorce is issued. He also realized that he would be given a bill of divorce as a wife, and that Philo would be issuing it as the husband. A startling thought, but true: he had been used as if he were a young, attractive interlocutress by Philo, the great philosopher, who was seemingly without any sexual allure at all, and he, Uri, had ended up cast in the role of the boring wife, soon to be cast away. As yet a new wife had not appeared in the wings, but one would be before too long, and he would have to play a new part.
Let’s see, then, what that new role will be, he concluded obstinately, and continued to converse with Philo, when the latter was so inclined, as if nothing had changed.
In place of Isidoros, a new gymnasiarch was awaiting them at the start of the new academic year — not Lampo, thanks be to the Eternal One, but an eager beaver with angrily flashing eyes who went by the name of Abdaraxus. Tija told him that two centuries ago there had been an engineer of that name in Alexandria who had proven to be an outstanding artificer of military engines, whereas this Abdaraxus occupied himself with researches into Homer, which everybody else found boring. Uri did not inquire after what had happened to Isidoros: he was sure that wherever the old gymnasiarch might be, he had more in common with him than with his fellow students.
I am drifting and drifting, but the Eternal One must have some sort of goal in mind.
He was amazed that this had come to mind. Jews in Alexandria did not live piously, though to some extent they could be said to observe prescriptions of the faith. One could not say even that much about Greek religiosity, just point to widely accepted customs and ceremonies.
He had already experienced a similar atmosphere in that Judaean village whose name, he was surprised to note, he had forgotten. Maybe one day he would similarly forget the name of Alexandria.
Get away from here? But to where? To Rome, back home? What kind of home was that? All the same…
Not just because in the taverns loud-mouthed drunks shouted out that an attempt had been made to choke Emperor Caligula with some Jewish concoctions, but the Roman Jewish pigs had not been able to manage it. Not just because Uri’s Greek companions let mindless caterwauling like that go on without offering so much as a word of protest. Uri sensed that some slippery, clammy, disgusting scent was wafting around him in the late summer sunshine. But it could only be emanating from within, he reassured himself, if it was accompanying him everywhere.
The excitements here had become alien.
But with the advent of autumn arrived new excitements. Not much was heard of Agrippa, though plenty was heard regarding the emperor’s appointment of Macro, Praetorian commander, as prefect of Egypt and Alexandria. If that news had reached Alexandria the source could only have been the Senate. The alabarch nervously discussed this new piece of information with members of his family and councilors. The number of Jewish councilors around Alabarch Alexander multiplied: a year ago Greek notables were far more prominent among those flocking to his receptions, the prefect at their head. But now Flaccus had again retreated to his palace, it was said. He was a fallen man and he would do better to take refuge somewhere, or even to put an end to his own life.
Was the appointment of Macro good for Alexandria or not? Was it a fall for Macro or not? Had the emperor made the decision because he wanted to be sure he was given an important place or because he wanted to get rid of him? If the latter were the case, then Alexandria had been taken down a peg or two, which was good for neither the local Greeks or the Jews. If the object were to set Macro up as a man of importance, then he would not be left long in this position, and the definitive prefect would only come once he’d moved on. In the meantime an interregnum held sway, and an interregnum was dangerous, Philo averred.