“In all truth, it’s you who ought to be speaking to Pilate, no?” Hilarus asked unexpectedly.
Uri looked around to see whom Hilarus was addressing, but Hilarus was looking intently at him.
“What was that? Me, speak to whom, about what?”
“You ought to be speaking to Pilate, or have I got that wrong?” Hilarus repeated his question.
Uri had no idea what this was about.
“What would I say to him?” he asked.
“I have no idea: that’s for you to know,” said Hilarus.
Everyone paused. Uri looked around at them; there was not a trace of goodwill in their eyes. Uri shuddered.
“The first time I heard the name was after setting off on this trip,” said Uri. “Before that I had no idea who the prefect of Judaea was. What am I supposed to speak to him about?”
“How would I know? It’s you who knows,” Hilarus said. “You just skulk around the town, staring at women’s naked breasts all day long.”
Everything was still.
Uri did not look at Alexandros. He’d obviously blabbed that I was at the stadium. Somehow it doesn’t count that he was also there; all that matters is that I was there. Why should that be?
“You keep spying on me all the time,” Uri let fly. “Why’s that? Are you going to tell me, at long last, why?”
They stared mutely.
“What makes you think that anyone is spying on you?” Matthew asked soothingly, gently, commiseratingly, paternally.
What a hypocrite, my God.
Uri got up, picked up his goblet of wine, and went into the house. He sat down on his bed and stared into the darkness.
Why do they not believe me?
From then on, Uri slept outside in the garden. He spent Friday evening praying with the group and the Jewish servants, after which he left. For the whole Sabbath he said nothing to them, nor they to him. He ate when they had finished and avoided their company, and they avoided his. He wandered around the garden and fretted. I’m the victim of some diabolical mistake, he thought; they don’t believe a word I tell them.
It won’t be long before this torment comes to an end; next Friday evening is the start of Passover. We have to arrive on Thursday at the latest because — so he had heard — no one would be allowed into the city on Friday. That means they would have to set off no later than Monday at daybreak, maybe even on Sunday evening. Just one more night, Uri thought, and we will be on our way.
They looked through his bag once more. The tefillin had been stuffed into the jug, which had been empty for days now. It had never occurred to him to stuff anything into the jug, least of all his phylactery. They must have wanted him to see that they had searched it. Was it Matthew or one of the others?
He said nothing. One of them is threatening me, he thought; he’s made up some lie about me to the others, and they believed him. But what could that be?
He brooded over what could be eating Hilarus. They had not exchanged a single word on the trip. But they had been rowing next to each other during the squall. Hilarus had been looking at his back. But he had not looked back even once, so he had not seen the fear, if there was any, on his face. He might be annoyed on account of that, but this much? And anyway, it was not Hilarus who had puked, but Valerius, the armchair seaman.
The more time I spend with them, the less I know them.
It crossed his mind that he should turn to Plotius for advice, who had spoken with him warmly and paternally in Syracusa, and had added an “Amen” when he had sworn that he was telling the truth. But something held Uri back. Not even Plotius had come to his defense when Hilarus came out with that nonsense earlier, though Plotius should have known better.
Can he really know, though?
Not so sure.
Who am I, after all?
He tried to examine himself from the outside. A young man, reddish beard, prematurely balding, who squinted, his eyes screwed up to slits, his back bowed, his chin receding and lopsided, the nose protuberant. Although he had lost weight on the way, he had not lost his modest potbelly or his double chin. He wriggled when seated because either his rectum or his back was causing him some discomfort; he walked clumsily, waddling; apparently he talked in his sleep, shouting and arguing; he had a constantly runny nose and was always clearing his throat. Not exactly an edifying spectacle, he concluded. But then what bad was there to see in such a preposterous figure?
Me — Agrippa’s agent? Come on! Surely they can’t seriously suppose that an ambitious grandson of Herod would entrust an important message to such a wretched stripling.
The Creator created me the way that I am, and He left it to me to make what I can of my endowments. I shall harden my soul, endure the indignity; be strong like nobody before.
“We’re hitting the road!” said Matthew.
He was standing over him in the garden and looking down just like his father had done in Rome, at home, two months earlier.
Uri scrambled to his feet, but by the time he could thank him for the wake-up call Matthew had gone back to the house.
It was daybreak on Sunday. Uri shivered as he raked the dew from his greasy hair with his frozen fingers.
They would reach Jerusalem on Wednesday, Thursday at the latest. They had already covered distances like that in Italia, and just as fast. A good thing that the days were longer in spring and summer than winter. And now they would also have a highway under their feet.
The Caesarea-Jerusalem road was well constructed, wider than the Appian Way. But there was a dark aspect to the overly broad thoroughfare: its builders understood that it was surrounded by a province that was not exactly peaceful. The reason it had been built was so that Roman legionaries might quickly march along it along to quell any Jewish rebellion; there was plenty of room for a big army, even for war chariots. Yet it was constructed in peaceful times, and the peace had held ever since, for many decades now, and Jewish leaders, wherever they might live, were doing all they could to keep the peace forever.
There was going to be war. Everyone was counting on that, even though it was peacetime; the builders of the military road had counted on war decades before. Simon the Magus could also see it coming and was doing what he could to save his money while he could.
At the edge of the road lolled women in scanty dresses made up in the Egyptian style. Their faces were daubed white, with their eyebrows picked out in dark paint and their lips red. Even Uri could see their features as they were standing no more than three or four feet away. He estimated the distance between the women as thirty to forty cubits; every one of them, old or young, had a half-crazed look about her. Some stood motionless, like resigned statues; others swayed, their legs apart, or whistled; others mechanically licked the corners of their mouths, or wiggled their backsides, or even pulled out their breasts to display. The travelers pretended not to notice. Uri assumed that some people were skimming off the top of whatever the women made, just as much of the profit his father made from silk was raked off. The reason the whores were allowed to live, as was his father in Rome, was because they made money for someone; the moment they ceased to be of use, they would be disposed of.
It would be good to talk about this with Joseph, but it was something that could not be discussed.
He couldn’t tell his father that he was being treated like a prostitute. No, that wasn’t the right word. He couldn’t tell his father that he was a slave.
The good thing about thoughts is that one can chew on them for a prolonged period, which made walking more tolerable. He was again carrying his sandals around his neck, and the bare, hardened soles of his feet tramped the military road from Caesarea to Jerusalem. His ankle became sore much sooner than it had in Italia, on account of the rough ground, he supposed, or as a result of the week of inactivity in Caesarea.