The black-bearded man asked if those reconstruction plans were accessible somewhere. Matthew said that he had seen them in the home of a Latin acquaintance of his, who had them on loan from the local public records office.
A soft question was then raised as to whether the wagoner was deaf, at which Matthew laughed before replying: No way! A deaf cart-driver cost a lot, with the wealthy paying as much as twenty thousand sesterces for one, but since drivers had to be relieved along the way, it would be quite impossible to engage that many deaf cart-drivers. But they should feel free to talk aloud in his presence, and that of those who would follow, because the cart-drivers were hardly in a position to pass on whatever information they had gleaned to the relieving cart-driver as they did not have enough time: they had to turn back immediately.
The conversation was conducted in Greek, and the delegation had every reason to suppose that the wagoner knew at least a smattering of Greek, but he did not react to this exchange in any way and instead dozed on the box.
It did occur to Uri that maybe it was not they who were carrying the sacrificial money but another group, and by another route, less conspicuous than them; they were nothing more than bait. Because it was written all over them that they were Jews — not so much their clothing but because they were not permitted to shave, unlike Romans, who since the end of the republic had forsaken beards so that hordes of plebeians and slaves made a living out of barbering.
Another question was raised as to whether the leader was carrying any object that qualified as a weapon. Matthew shook his head no. Experience had shown that it was more hazardous to travel with a weapon than without. “Those that take the sword shall perish with the sword,” Matthew quoted the proverb, adding that anyone who traveled with an armed escort was unnecessarily inviting attention from evil-minded parties.
By that point they had covered a good few miles along the Appian Way, on which military sentries were posted every three miles — not that there was any need for them, as there had been no war on Italian soil since the time of Hannibal, but it did no harm if everybody saw that in Rome a military dictatorship held sway. Pedestrians, soldiers, and carters showed up on the road every now and then, but they did not give so much as a glance at a wagon loaded with Jews. Uri marveled at how well the road was built; considering that they were plodding along on a wagon drawn by oxen, he might even have been able to read, had he brought any scrolls with him. He regretted that he had not thought of that in the excitement, but then he realized that the others would take it the wrong way if he were to immerse himself in reading; they might well suppose that he held them in contempt and sought conversation only with a person who was cleverer than they were — the author.
He had never been outside Rome before, and the endless strip of the Appian Way fascinated him. The others must have been feeling much the same, because one of them — Iustus was his name, he had introduced himself — remarked that his father, when he had been in slavery as a youngster, had worked in road gangs and never tired of declaring what painstaking work they had carried out. Uri squinted at him through narrowed eyes, and it struck him that this was someone he already knew by sight: he belonged to the same congregation. He was a small, weedy, quarrelsome person, uneducated and limited. One did not need much culture to be a road-maker; it was the sort of trade that strapping young guys went in for, but plainly Iustus had been driven to it because he was stupid. Maybe he was employed as a gang leader or purchasing agent. I’m at least as fit for the journey as him, Uri thought to himself with relief. Then he was struck by the unpleasant thought that Iustus might very well be acquainted with Joseph and, should the occasion arise over the coming days, might take the chance to spread gossip about him to the others.
Iustus related that a road would first be marked out by spade in accordance with the surveyors’ directions: the earth would be tamped down, a trench would be dug on both the right- and left-hand sides to drain the rain, because if the rain froze, it would crack the road; then the surface would be covered with two layers of stone flags, the gaps being filled with a material they called cement, which was composed of three parts gravel and one part lime mortar. The best limestone comes from Puteoli, but it did not always work out; gravel is sprinkled evenly on the flags — something to which special attention is paid — then a further layer of flags is laid on top of that, with the gaps filled with gravel, all of it stuffed down in such a way that it should have a little camber to both left and right, again to ensure that the rain runs off. The flagstones are hacked out by slaves in the quarries and transported from there ready for use, stacked on top of each other.
“Where is this Puteoli?” the black-beard queried.
“Off to the south,” said Iustus. “It’s a big port, one hundred and forty-three stadia from Rome.”
“We won’t be stopping,” said Matthew, “but we’ll be passing by.”
Iustus went on to relate that his father had put on a tremendous amount of muscle with the road construction, but there came a time when he badly strained his back while working and from then on, for the rest of his days, he was only able to get around with a stick. As his master could not sell him, he let him emancipate himself inexpensively. “So, my father sired me with his stick,” declared Iustus, in rather poor taste.
If it was only Iustus’s father who gained his freedom, then he cannot be a Roman citizen himself, Uri figured. Were all the rest citizens? he wondered. Not that the authorities were particularly interested which people left Rome for Jerusalem, but he was still somewhat comforted by the thought that there was someone in the delegation who was legally of lesser worth than himself.
Going south, they stopped at a hostelry, not so much to eat as to have a drink, wash their feet, and pray. A Jewish male, wherever he might be, had to wash his hands and feet and pray three times a day. Matthew brought out a big brass bowl from the inn, drew water into it from the well, then set the bowl on the ground. His companions stretched their backs, massaged their feet, and one by one followed Matthew in stepping to the bowl, fully clothed, dabbling hands and feet in the water, then stepping out. Uri, being the youngest, went last and so, by way of ritually washing himself, dabbled in everyone else’s filth. They then turned to the southeast and, after affixing the tefillin, a leather box with straps attached and a portion of the Pentateuch inside on rolled-up parchment, to the forehead or left arm, they prayed for a while with repeated bowing. Matthew emptied a cupful of fresh water into their jugs, and they drank water; they each had a bulky jug, one of those crudely finished articles sold by the dozen and surprisingly heavy given how little water they held. Uri had no difficulty imagining himself drinking from something a bit more genteel. Matthew took the brass bowl back and climbed up onto the box while they clambered onto the wagon, stuffed the phylacteries and jugs back into their sacks, and set off again.