A dump wasn’t such a bad idea, Uri considered; better than a cemetery, at any rate.
He looked over at banks of the canal. There was no one down there, no fishermen angling for prey, no fishing boats. Anyone who could swim and could stand the stink would be able to get out of Delta as far as the lake. He regretted not having learned how to swim, but the Tiber, after all, was even filthier than this.
The two Greeks came back; they had not gone far into the trash, but they had not found anybody.
They continued toward Delta, the Jews running resignedly, the Greeks merrily, meticulously whacking them: they were glad the boredom was at an end; they, society’s scum, had become important and were fulfilling a lofty purpose.
They saw some burnt-out shops. They ran past a synagogue, its gate open, the bimah strewn with rubble; it had been ransacked. What was there to steal, for God’s sake? A Torah — that was worthless to them; the menorah — that might be sold or melted down; lamps — well yes, if it was a silver vessel. The Jews burst out into sobs as they ran.
They had recognized Delta’s boundary by the fact that the Greeks had thrown together from beams and stones a makeshift wall across the road; they were taking pains to cement the stones together, lugging over large buckets of sand, mortar and water. The group stopped.
“What’s this, then?” queried one of sturdy cudgel wielders.
“It’s going to be walled in! All the streets are being shut off!”
The cudgel wielder chortled and amicably smacked on the back of a skinny woman who was bent over by her coughing.
“Right! In with you!”
The Jews scrambled up the stones, and where the wall was still low jumped down, one after the other. Uri clambered after them and took a look behind.
“Drop dead, scumbags!” he yelled before jumping off into Delta.
On the other side several woman and an elderly man lay gasping on the ground. Uri kneeled next to the old man, who shielded his eyes with his hands.
“I too am Jewish,” said Uri. “Have you any broken bones?”
They sized him up mistrustfully. Some young men gathered threateningly around him. Uri got to his feet.
“I too am Jewish,” he repeated. “Do you want to look?”
“But you ran with the Greeks!”
“Because I wanted to get to Delta! I didn’t hit anyone!”
“Liar! You’re a spy for the Greeks!”
“Are you nuts?” said Uri, shrugging his shoulders, turning away and slowly starting off northward.
No one followed him.
In Delta, groups of people were standing around, animatedly discussing events; many were marching along with blankets, pots and pans, hammering on tightly shut house doors to no avail; elderly men of distinguished demeanor marched off somewhere or other, perhaps to confer, and firmly, with dignity, brushed off anyone who tried to join them. A long queue of people stood in front of one restaurant, perhaps waiting for food to be doled out; shops were closed, not so much on account of Drusilla’s death but because of the conflict. Uri picked up his pace; he knew that Delta had a big population, but not as big as this. He would have liked to get to the Basilica, because he was familiar with that neighborhood, and he would have found it reassuring to find a haven there, only the streets to the north were now sealed off; the industrious Greeks had built walls everywhere, cutting the northern and southern sections of Delta apart.
Uri stood by the northern wall; stonemasons were still working on the far side.
“What are they doing that for?” Uri burst out in Aramaic.
“Because the houses of the rich are to the north,” came a response in Aramaic. The man was standing nearby, watching in leisurely fashion, chewing papyrus bark.
“You mean these people here have been thrown out of there?” Uri asked.
“Certainly,” said the man. “This makes it easier to rob the houses.”
“But you can’t do that without the prefect’s permission.”
“You said it,” the man nodded.
Uri took a closer look at him. He had a black beard, black hair, and swarthy features, a fine figure of a man, maybe thirty or so. The man in turn sized Uri up; his eyes narrowed as he was plunged in thought:
“I’ve seen you somewhere before,” he said.
“That could be,” said Uri.
“You don’t live in Delta.”
“No, I don’t.”
The man pondered, then shrugged his shoulders and turned away, still chewing.
Uri looked around. There was a fever of activity, with each family tugging its belongings after it in a handcart: chairs, pots, blankets, candlesticks. It seemed the Greeks in northern Delta had allowed the Jews to take some things away after all; that meant less resistance than if they had started pillaging everything straightaway.
Uri’s stomach was growling. He had not had anything to eat since that morning, and that had only been fruit. I’ve got out of the habit of doing without food, he thought. It’s high time I got used to it again.
“How is it possible to provide for this number of people?” Uri asked.
“There’s no way,” the man responded.
“So what is going to happen?”
“The Eternal One will come to our aid,” said the man.
Uri peered questioningly at his face to see if he was joking, but he found it impossible to tell.
“If a person is hungry and thirsty but has no money,” Uri went on, “what is he supposed to do?”
“Croak hungry,” the man suggested.
Uri pondered.
“And if that’s not to his liking?”
“Steal,” the man offered a new suggestion.
Uri guffawed. People were racing about, wailing, beating their breasts or just sitting forlornly, convulsed, on the ground. The man’s calm struck Uri as extraordinary.
“You don’t live in Delta either, do you,” said Uri, more by way of a statement than a question.
“No,” said the man. “I have no relatives in Alexandria.”
“Neither do I,” said Uri.
“Just be glad, then!” the man suggested, “like me.”
Uri hemmed.
“I’m called Gaius Theodorus,” he said. “I’m from Rome.”
The man’s eyes glinted.
“I know who you are! You usually sit next to the alabarch in the Basilica.”
“That’s me.”
The man’s look turned suspicious at that.
“What are you doing here?” he queried, interrupting his chewing.
“I was sent here by the alabarch to spy out the land for him, and, by the way, so that I should curl up and die as soon as possible.”
The man gave Uri’s sweat-soaked tunic a once over, thought a moment, and nodded.
“You got there too late, didn’t you?”
“Yup.”
“They’ve long since left the city,” the man stated. “They’ve got their own private army; they’ll survive. They pay off the Greeks and they’re taken care of. But how come you speak Aramaic? People here don’t!”
Uri gave a brief explanation.
“My name’s Aristarchos,” the man said in response. “I’m a seaman; my family lives in Tyre. I’ve been held up in the port for a week now; I wasn’t allowed to unload so I rowed in by dinghy. I’ve been in negotiation for six days now; they wanted to shift the whole cost of the delay onto my shoulders, as if I had been refusing to unload… They’re dead stupid, the Jews here! Very rich, very arrogant, and very stupid. They curse, hint at infractions of the law and meanwhile play tricks, getting me to pay even for my board and lodgings, instead of paying the Greeks a bigger bribe… I’m fairly sure every Jewish boat has been pillaged, mine included. All that was left on it were two of my men; the rest have spent a week drinking in the harbor area… I’m curious as to whether those two men of mine are still alive or have been poleaxed.”