ROMAN HOLIDAY

ROMAN HOLIDAY

He woke with a start in the darkness, his body bent over as he sat on the hard wooden seat, his usual mode of sleeping for so many years now. Something was different, though he could not, at first, comprehend what exactly. Roses? Could he smell roses? That waft of sweet, peppery scent-peonies? Now, the distinct scent of lavender invaded his nostrils; this heady mixture of fragrances transporting him back in time, so long ago. Forgotten remembrances began to stir, evoking tears; memories he had banished from his mind.

Judah Ben Yah had completed his business on behalf of his father but could not resist the lures of the bazaar of Massilia as it stretched alongside the waterfront. A mere boy of seventeen years, Judah had been tutored by his beloved father in the art of trade ever since he had been able to speak. So adept had he become that his abba had full confidence in his ability to handle the family business in Rome but this was the boy’s first entrusted mission elsewhere in the Empire.

For Judah, this was what he had always dreamed of; to be able to travel, broaden his education and range of contacts, develop the business by engaging in products other than those it already handled. This voyage had been a success and, as well as negotiating a deal for the import of vino on better terms than his abba had thought possible, the boy had also met with and agreed provisional rights for the importing of other products, samples of which were safely stored onboard the ship that would return him to Rome as soon as the tide allowed. These products included olive oil and grain as well as non-food, luxury items such as glassware and pottery. In the mind of this budding merchant prince, there was no limit to what could be achieved by establishing trade links throughout the vast reach of the Roman Empire.

Things had changed dramatically for the Jewish population of Rome when the Emperor, Julius Caesar had declared the right for Jews to be exempt from religious rituals and military service and had granted them permission to follow their ancestral laws, customs and Jewish religion. In order to circumnavigate the laws banning secret societies, synagogues had been classed as colleges, places of education. Judah’s father had settled with his wife on the right bank of the Tiber and begun his business, free of the restraints that had shackled the Jewish community for so long. Slowly, bit by bit, profits had increased and he had garnered a name for fair and honest dealing and had become a respected trader within Rome itself.

The modest but beautifully positioned home that Yah had chosen had been transformed by his wife, Esther, both inside and out. Their garden was as a paradise with its multitude of flowers and plants, trees and water features and, though internally, too, the house was furbished delicately and tastefully, the couple would often linger long into the night in their garden nirvana, giving thanks to God for their blessings. When Judah had been born, their happiness was complete though he had been a sickly child and, more than once, had looked certain to succumb to the ill vapours that abounded the streets of the city and emanated from the Tiber. As he grew older, though his physicality remained weak, Judah’s mental prowess more than compensated for his slightness of stature and inability to play games.

Though not a Roman citizen, Judah, like most Roman Jews abroad, carried a disc around his neck decreeing his right, as a resident of Rome, to travel and trade throughout the Empire but, as he strolled through the alleyways of this bazaar, happy and content in the knowledge that he had represented his father well, trade was the last thing on his mind for he wished to find a trinket, something inexpensive but pretty, that he could take home as a present to his dear mother.

Throughout the bazaar, indeed throughout the entire port, Roman soldiers could be spotted in their distinctive garb, a further indication of the enormous reach of Rome and Judah felt comforted at being a small part of that great power. As he dallied at a stall displaying a collection of bracelets in the multi-coloured stones that Massilia was famed for, a commotion broke out behind him and, turning, he saw a man hurtling towards him. The two collided and Judah was unceremoniously knocked to the ground as the man sped past pursued by several other men including soldiers of the Empire though they were some way behind. As Judah recovered himself, he became aware that the fleeing man had deposited a small money bag inside Judah’s shirt, disposing of the evidence of his theft.

“Look, he’s got the bag”, a voice shouted.

Startled, Judah began to regain his footing as a crowd gathered around him. In his right hand, he held aloft the bag.

“This isn’t mine”, he proclaimed aloud. “He put it inside my shirt”.

“Thief! Thief!”. These cries broke out among the occupants of the bazaar and soon the previously calm gathering had turned into a mob, baying for retribution. Judah was grabbed violently by two soldiers as he tried, haplessly, to protest his innocence. When he resisted this arrest and dug his feet into the earthen ground, one of the men clubbed him across the back of his head with the hilt of his gladius.

Judah was still dazed, his head spinning, a throbbing pain making it difficult to keep his eyes open and he had to be held upright by his two captors as he stood in front of the magistrate. He struggled to comprehend what was happening but, from somewhere deep inside of him, he summoned the clarity and strength to proclaim that he was a trusted trade emissary of Rome and, as he did so, he reached inside his shirt to reveal his treasured token...but there was nothing there. Stunned, he shouted that it must have been torn off when the robber had collided with him.

“I am innocent”.

Fighting against the iron grips of the two soldiers, he managed to free one arm but, before he could wrest free the other, he was once more clubbed unconscious.

It was to the beating of a drum when Judah next opened his eyes; the pain in his head searing. Seeking the source of this pounding noise, he managed, eventually, to focus his eyes straight ahead where a half naked man sat, a huge canvas drum in front of him which he beat rhythmically with a hammer like tool. As he did so, he occasionally turned his head, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left. Judah could not comprehend where he was or what was happening. At the same time, he became dimly aware of movement; he was being jerked backwards then thrust forwards with increased momentum. Glimmers of light penetrated his surroundings through holes in the walls of this prison and he realised that he was surrounded on all sides by other men, some completely naked, some wearing loincloths only and he was immediately assaulted by the olfactory version of hell itself. Sweat, both stale and fresh, vomit, urine, faeces, gangrenous wounds, all intermixed in a fusion of nightmarish, fetid offensiveness. He tried to raise his hand to cover his mouth and nose but was prevented by the chains that shackled him to the wooden floor. He retched involuntarily, aware, for the first time, of his own nakedness as the contents of his stomach spewed disgustingly over his exposed legs and feet.

Suddenly, he felt the stinging lash of a whip across his back, causing him to scream out in pain as another man stood over him, sweat coursing down his naked torso.

“Row!”

As the man passed on down the line, Judah cast his eyes to his right, at the man alongside him who was pulling on a giant oar.

“Don’t look at me, boy. Just row”.

Judah picked up the timber beam that lay across his lap, partially covered in his own vomit. He began to pull, the use of his muscles, of actually being able to physically do something, helping to alleviate the pain in his head and cast lucidity upon this new purgatorial existence.

The purgatory turned to hell as the years passed; Judah, like all galley slaves, was chained for life to this desperate existence. His already thin frame became emaciated; bones barely covered by his parchment-like skin. The one meal permitted each day was not able to sustain, let alone nourish life, consisting, unvaryingly, of a piece of bizcocho and a stew of broad beans, accompanied by a solitary tin cup of water, often stagnant.

He lived where he sat, eating, urinating, defecating and sleeping in that same position, his anus a complex of sores from this constant position, causing great distress when the ship was in movement from the rubbing back and forth. The stench from the noxious effusion of smells, the result of the unsanitary contamination was the least of his concerns as he watched men finally surrender to the inevitable and die as they sat, their bodies decomposing in front of him before they were finally unchained and taken away.

Though the physicality of his work should, ironically, have, despite all other conditions, increased his strength, the lack of sustenance on an already frail body only served to weaken this poor boy’s constitution.

His back became bent and deformed from being forced to sleep as he sat, leaning over his oar and the pain was unbearable each time he was forced to straighten up and recommence rowing, Yet, bear it, he did. He became adept at obeying the subtle turning of the head of the hortator as he beat his drum, steering the ship in the direction needed.

He watched in admiration as those brave enough attempted to put an end to their nightmare by refusing to eat though their resistance did not last long. The galley master would use a speculum oris to prise a slave’s mouth open, a scissors like metal instrument that included a thumbscrew adornment that caused immense pain and he knew that he, himself, did not have the courage to attempt suicide.

Four times, his ship had come into conflict with another and the hortator’s orchestration had been electrifying and intense as he urged them in the twists and turns of the manoeuvres needed to avoid defeat. Could they be defeated? Rescued? Sunk? As he pulled with all of his might, these thoughts pulsed through his mind; an escape from the unjust hell in which he was encased.

But, so far, they had managed to avoid defeat or serious damage and his agonising ordeal had continued unabated. He found himself looking forward to his daily meal but, more than anything, his once pristine self longed for that time each day when the galley master would walk among them and throw a bucket of sea water over their emaciated frames. The coolness; a momentary respite from the suffocating heat. A cleansing, a partial washing away of the detritus of his own humanity that clung to him and mortified this sensitive soul.

Then, one night, hunched over painfully as he slept, he had awoken in the dark to smell -not the usual collection of foul odours but that sweet smelling scent of roses, the intoxicating, sweetness of peonies, the soothing balm of lavender and, he knew, somehow, that he was back in his mother’s beautifully cultivated garden, the noise of the water features trickling amongst the foliage. He felt such immense joy as he walked up the garden path towards the villa, the singing of birds all around. Judah Ben Yah smiled exultantly as he espied his parents rushing to greet him, tears of happiness upon their faces.

The chains unshackled, the terrible scars and indentations in this young man’s wrists and ankles so evident from his years of enforced servitude, the body, weightless, was carried aloft by the galley master and, without even a glance from those manning this man o’ war on the upper deck, thrown unceremoniously overboard.