Stateless (22 page)

184 CE (fourth year of the reign of Emperor Commodus)

I
t was already the middle of the night when a tired, frustrated and increasingly anxious Abram and his friend Maria the Jewess knocked on the door of Didia's home.

A slave opened the door a fraction to see who was standing there so late; robbers and murderers didn't knock, so the slave wasn't all that wary, especially when he saw a well-dressed middle-aged man and woman, carrying no obvious weapons.

‘We wish to see your owner, Didia,' the woman said, her voice strident and confident.

‘Come back in the morning,' the slave said. ‘The house has retired for the night.'

‘We will see her now,' said the woman, walking forward and pushing past the slave.

They entered the opulent home, with its marble statuary, its tiled mosaic floor and walls painted with flying birds and naked men and women. Abram looked around in amazement; he'd seen such a house, a Roman villa in Tiberias on the shores of the lake that was shaped like a harp, but it was the only time he'd even been amid such wealth . . . until now.

Standing in a doorway that led off the vestibule was a tall, thin woman, wearing a gown edged with lapis lazuli and a collar glistening red with rubies scintillating in the light of the oil lamps.

‘Leave us,' she said to the slave. She motioned to Abram and Maria. ‘Please, enter my home and let me offer you some refreshment.'

Maria and Abram walked unsurely from the door into a chamber furnished with carpets and chairs made of wood and the finest animal skins. The table was of a dark brown wood, almost the colour of black marble; like much in this place, Abram had never before seen such a thing. He felt as though he was in the home of a king.

A woman slave suddenly appeared and on a tray were drinks. As Maria and Abram sat, the drinks were placed on the table, and the slave, bowing, presented them, bowed again, and walked out of the room.

‘Thank you for allowing us into your home, and our apologies for visiting you so late at night, but our boat leaves for Greece on the morning tide, and we wish to purchase a young lad, a slave, to take back with us. We have particular needs,' said Maria. ‘He must be –'

Didia held up her hand. Smiling, her voice like that of a priestess rather than a merchant, she said, ‘I know and understand perfectly what are your needs. You are the Jewess Maria, the alchemist; and you are Abram, the doctor from Israel who searches for his son. I have your boy. He is perfectly safe and well.'

Abram looked at her in astonishment. Until now, in the two slave houses he'd visited, he'd remained silent, letting Maria do all the talking. Now he was about to say something, but Didia continued. ‘You want the return of your son, Jonathan. Of course you do. And you shall have him.'

She smiled, and looked at their faces. Maria's became hard and uncompromising. Abram looked stunned, as though he'd just been hit on the head. ‘How much?' Maria asked.

‘Nothing. No money. You can have him back without payment.'

Maria frowned. ‘I don't understand.'

‘Surely one favour deserves another,' said Didia softly.

Warily, Abram said, ‘You stole my son. You're a thief. You'll give him back without any favours or conditions. If not, I'll – '

But Maria didn't allow him to finish, cutting across him. ‘What favour?'

‘I want you to steal something for me. Something that belongs to me. Something of no value to anybody, except me.'

Abram was about to speak again, growing more and more furious, but Maria quickly cut in again. ‘What is it you want back? And who has this thing?'

Didia sipped her drink, and fixed Abram with a stare that made him feel suddenly wary. ‘Let me tell you about my son, Kheti. My beautiful boy. He died last year of the wasting sickness. For a year, he grew weaker and weaker, coughing blood, until he was so weak, he took to his bed. I watched him die. Every day, I fed him, washed him, prayed to the gods of Egypt, of Greece, of Rome and even of Israel. But he slipped further and further away from me, until one day he breathed no more. His four brothers and three sisters and I mourned for him for seven days and seven nights, until the priests had finished with his body and it was time for him to be entombed. And it was they who supported me through my grief, because even though I have children who will carry my name into the future, my Kheti was my youngest and most beautiful of sons.

‘I buried him in the way of our Egyptian deities so that in the afterlife he would be ready to be presented to Osiris. He
was mummified and as he was being wrapped by the priests and embalmed, I placed his favourite amulet of the four sons of Horus inside the linen.

‘But while I was watching him being wrapped, the Roman Procurator, Gaius Lucius Septimus, happened to come along to watch the process. He was fascinated by Kheti's amulet, and ordered the priests to remove it so that he could keep it. I remonstrated with him, forbade him, and eventually begged him. But he's an arrogant man, and he treated me as though I was some insect biting his arm. So he now has the amulet in his home on the hill, and without it, my beautiful son will be unhappy in the afterlife, and Osiris will not find pleasure with him. I have been to the Procurator's home, but he will not let me in. I am forbidden to tread on his land, and his men have orders to strike me down if I come near Gaius Lucius while he is being carried on his litter through town.'

She looked at Abram and Maria, and her face suddenly became that of a grieving mother rather than a slave trader.

‘And you want me to enter the Procurator's home and take back your son's amulet?' said Abram.

Didia nodded.

‘Why shouldn't I go to the Procurator, tell him that you've stolen my son, and have you arrested?'

‘Because, Abram, if you do that, you will never see your son again. I will die, but my death will be instantaneous. For the rest of your life, you'll never know whether Jonathan is dead and buried in some stinking rubbish pit, or alive and toiling away his life as a slave to some Greek or Roman overlord.'

‘You would do that to a father? You! A mother who's just lost her son? What evil thoughts must pass through your mind,' Maria said.

Didia turned and glared at her. ‘Don't think that you know what passes through my mind, you sorceress. You and Abram
are Jews. I, too, was born a Jewess. My mother was a Jewess as was her mother before her.'

Abram was shocked. ‘You? But I don't understand. Your son was buried as an Egyptian.'

‘My family came to Egypt hundreds of years ago. When King Cyrus was overlord of Persia, during the rule of King Manasseh of Judah, my ancestors were paid to come to the island of Elephantine in the upper Nile to help the Pharaoh in his battles with the Nubians. They stayed there until Alexander came to Egypt three hundred years later, and founded this city. And here they've been ever since, even remaining after the massacre of the Jews by the emperor Trajan. That was when my grandmother changed her religion to become a worshipper of Egyptian gods. But in our hearts, we've always been Jews. And my family can trace its ancestry back to the Temple of King Solomon . . .'

Abram laughed. ‘That was a thousand years ago. How can you?'

Didia wasn't amused at being disbelieved. ‘My family passes its heritage from father to son, mother to daughter. From the time we're children, as one generation succeeds the next, our mothers and fathers have taught us about the great men and women of our family. When we have learned to read and write, our parents consider that we're ready to learn the history of our family. We're told that in the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem, our greatest ancestor, Gamaliel, son of Terah, was the man who constructed the House of the god Adon, stone by stone. So do not doubt me, Maria the Jewess, or you, Abram the Israelite, when I say that I, too, am a Jew.'

‘Yet,' Abram said, softly, as though to himself, ‘you trade in children. You take young boys and girls away from their parents and sell them into slavery.'

‘Abraham of the Bible owned slaves as did many of the ancients. I am just continuing a tradition.'

‘But Jews no longer own slaves. Yes, those of us who are wealthy have servants, but the servant can leave his master's employment and is free to wander. Yet the children you trade . . . they have no life other than a living death of servitude.'

Didia sighed. ‘It's the parents who sell me their unwanted children. Egyptian, Nubian, those from Sudan and Punt and from far south where the natives are as black as mahogany. These unwanted children, who eat and take up living space, would be murdered or drowned; yet I give the parents money, take them off their hands, and for the rest of their lives the children grow into adults with a place to sleep, a good meal in their bellies, and a master and mistress to tend to them if they fall sick. If not for me and my slavery, these boys and girls would now be dead.'

She shrugged her shoulders, knowing that he could not refute her argument. The three fell into silence, looking at one another, until Abram said, ‘So for you to return my son, I have to go to the home of the Procurator and steal back the amulet that once belonged to Kheti and which you want to return to his shroud.'

Didia nodded.

‘And then you will return my son, Jonathan, to me.'

Again, she nodded.

‘And if I steal it back for you, and give it to you, how do I know that you'll keep your word?'

Didia looked at him and shrugged. ‘You don't know that, Abram. But what choice do you have?'

For the rest of the night, until they were too exhausted to continue, they discussed ways of Abram getting into the Procurator's home and treating him for the disease for which he was well known – the falling sickness. During his first meeting of the city elders in the week he arrived as the new Roman Procurator and Senatorial Overlord of Egypt, he had suddenly stood
from his throne, clutched his head, and called to his servant to help him leave the chamber. But even before his servant could get the rod to put into his mouth, Gaius Lucius Septimus had fallen onto the floor and looked as though he was having a fit. His legs, arms and body had shook, and foam had flowed out of his mouth.

Those who understood these things said that he had the same falling sickness as the greatest of all philosophers, Socrates, and as Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar. For days after his malady, Gaius Lucius hadn't been seen outside of his palace, and it was unwise for anybody to mention his illness.

‘I have an idea,' said Abram. ‘Didia, you spread the word to all you know that a great doctor has arrived from Jerusalem who has cured men of the falling sickness. But to ensure that he knows I am a friend of Rome, you must say that I am from the city of Aelia Capitolina in the country of Syria Palaestina. Only then will he feel trust in me. Perhaps the gossip will come to the ears of his servants, and administrators; and perhaps they will whisper my name into his ear. But even when I'm inside his palace, how will I find the amulet?'

The two women looked at each other. Neither had the answer.

Even Abram, doubtful of whether the scheme would work, was surprised by the swiftness of the response. It had been two days since his meeting with Didia the slave trader. Though he was still anxious about the welfare of Jonathan, his fears had receded because he now knew that his son was alive and being cared for. Those fears he'd suffered when Jonathan hadn't returned to
their lodgings had been replaced by his very real concerns about being able to cure the incurable disease of the falling sickness, and of finding some small amulet in a short time in the vastness of the Procurator's palace.

So when, in the middle of the night, somebody knocked aggressively on his door, and shouted out in a language he barely understood, ‘Open, in the name of the Procurator,' he was quite unprepared for what was about to happen.

Abram jumped out of bed and opened the door to find a huge, burly centurion standing there, dressed in the regalia of the Roman army, his breast badge showing that he was a member of the Legion XVII Alexandrianus.

Without any introduction, the centurion commanded, ‘You're the doctor from Syria Palaestina. You will come with me immediately.'

Not wanting to indicate that he was aware such a command might be made, Abram spluttered, ‘What . . . why . . . I'm a doctor . . . who demands I come . . . who are you?'

The centurion eyed him coldly. ‘Don't ask me any questions. Just get dressed, bring any instruments you use to cure people, and come with me. Now!'

Within a minute Abram was marching in the middle of a phalanx of men towards the upper part of the city. They were the only people on the road, as the curfew forbade anybody to be on the streets late at night after the city bells had been rung. When they reached the palatial residence of the Procurator, Abram was overwhelmed by its size, grandeur and opulence. His whole life had been spent in villages and large towns, having been forbidden, like all Jews, from entering Jerusalem except on the one day, the ninth day of the month of Ab, when Jews were allowed to enter and grieve in sorrow for their history. His only view of Jerusalem had been from deep in its bowels, when as a boy he and his beloved Ruth had burrowed to the top
of the tunnel to return the seal given to him long ago by Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai and his son.