Two entrances led into the U-shaped structure, and after passing through one of the vomitoria one reached a corridor separating the upper and lower stands. A separate set of steps led to each vomitorium to divide the crowd into smaller groups before they made their way into the auditorium. Uri was enchanted by the inscription that was set above the entrance passageways: VOMITORIUM I, VOMITORIUM II, and so on, as if some enormous force were regurgitating the unsavory crowd into the auditorium through these openings.
When he reached the auditorium, through the third vomitorium from the north, Uri realized he would have had a fine view out to sea if his eyesight had been any good. He would gladly have climbed up into the upper section, but he decided to find a place as low down as possible so that he could at least see something. The soldiers raced into the upper tribune; they were eagle-eyed, that was how they had been picked. Civilians took the seats next to Uri in the lower sector.
The stadium had a paved floor but was thickly covered in sawdust. Centered between the northward-pointing arms of the U was a platform running north to south, about three feet high and eight or nine feet wide, on top of which notables and the judges of the chariot race would obviously be seated. The truncated pyramid of marble that indicated the turnaround in the course was placed at the northern end of the platform; the four positions that made up the starting line were placed at the southern end.
It became clear why the soldiers had raced to the upper tribune, and the upper rows at that: the platform partially obscured the upper, western, section of the track from the view of spectators in the lower tribune.
The theater lying immediately south of the stadium had a number of ancillary buildings tacked on to it: a water tower, stables, and dressing rooms, as well as two entrances that were closed to the public and concealed by two high walls. It was through these that the competitors would later drive their chariots to the starting line.
Uri seemed to recall that it was in the stadium at Caesarea that the Jews from Jerusalem had protested against Pilate.
He shuddered.
This was the stadium.
Only a few weeks before, the Jewish protesters had lain down in this sawdust-strewn arena and demanded that their heads be cut off.
He looked around, peering with narrowed eyes.
Spectators were pouring in peacefully through the vomitoria, hungry for spectacle; not one of them had any memory of the unrest.
Those two risible characters they had encountered in Messina would have reached Rome by now and would be proclaiming to Far Side at large about the monstrous things that were happening in Caesarea. No doubt there would be some who gave credence to their reports, who became alarmed, and who plied the message bearers with food and drink.
Once he got back home he would tell his father; let him be amused.
As Uri peered around he pondered the strategic considerations that may well have played a part in choosing the location for the stadium; it stood right by the seashore, just like Herod’s palace, and could likewise function secretly as a mooring place for military craft. Herod the Great could not have put much faith in his hold on power if he had built as many as three secret harbors, Uri reflected; and then for decades on end he had ruled without any trouble, murdering notable Jews by the thousand, not to mention members of his own family, including his adored wife and all his sons.
There were fifteen rows in the upper stands, and the same number in the lower. How many could be packed into each of those rows? Around five hundred, he guessed, which came to fifteen or twenty thousand in total. Nothing when compared with the capacity of the Circus Maximus in Rome, which held some 180,000. Uri’s stomach knotted. He felt lost among the unfamiliar soldiers and civilians, much more so than he had in Syracusa, perhaps because that had at least still been in Italia, home. Here he looked around with a Roman sense of superiority: what had fallen to his lot was more, bigger, and better. Not that he would have dared set foot in the Circus Maximus; he had just heard about it and passed it many a time. He vowed that once he reached home, he would attend the Circus Maximus. He was a Roman citizen; he was entitled to.
The stadium had not filled up completely; it must have been about three quarters full. The spectators yelled to one another and to the vendors, who prowled along the corridor separating the upper and lower tribunes with their big baskets, shouting themselves hoarse as they sold wine, pancakes, olives pickled in wine vinegar, honey, and knick-knacks. Alexandros must be right: half of the town’s population was Jewish. He must have been here a few times before, thought Uri; odd, though, that a merchant should be a traveler himself.
All of a sudden, Alexandros himself popped up nearby, looking for a good seat. Uri was flabbergasted; it was as if he had just conjured him. But he was delighted as well, and he hollered at the top of his voice until Alexandros heard him. It was not delight that registered on his face so much as perplexity before he decided to break into a grin, and, pulling himself past the legs of others, he sat down next to Uri. His neighbors grumbled and squeezed to make room.
“I’d never have figured you as one for the Circus,” Alexandros said.
“I’m not,” said Uri. “I’m here for the philosopher.”
Alexandros was unaware that a philosopher was on the program; all he knew about was chariot races and wrestling.
“But of course!” he said. “You were also in the amphitheater in Syracusa on account of some philosopher.”
Uri was again flabbergasted: how did he know that?
“Matthew said.”
Uri fell silent. Was his every move being discussed by his companions? Alexandros twisted his head around, studying the soldiers sitting in the upper tribune.
“They get everything free,” he said cryptically. “Even the wine. Civilians have to pay.”
The indignation came as a surprise to Uri.
“In a few days they too will be in Jerusalem,” said Alexandros. “All three cohorts and the whole ala.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“Everyone knows.”
“Have you been to Jerusalem before?”
“No, but everyone knows that all four cohorts and the ala have to be there, along with the prefect, for the four big feasts. Caesarea falls empty on these occasions. If anyone wants to occupy it, this is the time to do it.”
“Why so many soldiers in Jerusalem?”
“They’re frightened of us,” said Alexandros, with an evil laugh. “Scared stiff, the wretches. If we were united in our will, we would rise up and hurl them out from the top row, and they would all fall down dead.”
Uri thought it best to say nothing, so he turned toward the wall, separated from the race track by railings on both sides; on the steps constructed at the south end of this the notables were starting to file up. They were greeted with loud acclamation by the soldiers in the upper tribune, and in turn they waved and bowed as if they were actors.
“Big nobodies,” said Alexandros. “Local quaestors and aediles.”
I’ve been traveling for a month and a half with my companions, thought Uri, yet I know nothing at all about them. What does he mean by their being frightened “of us”? Who are “we” anyway? Alexandros and me? Who else is “one of us”?
The preparations for the chariot race lasted for ages, deliberately dragged out with all sorts of hocus pocus, and while the spectators were now cheering for the four colors (green seemed to be the most popular, as it was in Rome, with the soldiers uniformly banking on that, whereas the Jewish citizens, from the noise, went more for blue), Uri, for the sake of having something to say, asked Alexandros if he minded going with him later if he was able to arrange to see the sewer.