Apprentice (48 page)

I waited anxiously as Father, Timonus, and our two Saracens spoke to one desert nomad after another. Suddenly broad smiles broke out on the men's faces, hands were clasped in agreement, and Timonus casually passed a small purse to the nomad leader. Abruptly he clapped his hands, and men produced tents and other equipment that they efficiently set up as our camp. A goat was brought forward for Father to slaughter, and soon it was skinned and roasting over the fire.

While Rabbah went off to see if there were ten Jewish men to make a minyan for Shabbat prayers later, Father and Timonus explained how we would safely cross the desert.

“For desert Saracens, honor is everything,” Father said. “Once we're under their protection, every man in the tribe is sworn to die defending us, if necessary.”

“Of course, they don't receive the final payment until we're delivered to our destination,” Timonus added.

Their answers did little to calm my anxiety. “How do we know they won't slit our throats in the desert somewhere and run off with our money?”

“These tribes have been guarding winter travelers between Bavel and the West for generations,” Father replied. “They recognize that such problems would become known, resulting in an immediate loss of business.”

Timonus nodded. “They also recognize that good service will be well compensated and recommended to others.”

“What happens to those who don't hire these so-called guards?” I asked. “The road seems straightforward enough, and it shouldn't be difficult to carry sufficient supplies for a journey of three weeks.”

“Those foolish enough to reject the Saracens' protection will quickly find themselves in need of it,” Timonus replied.

“So we bribe the nomads to keep them from attacking us,” I said with disgust.

Father shrugged. “If we wish to cross their desert, we must pay for the privilege. That's their business.”

Timonus gazed at the goat turning on its spit and licked his lips. “They do provide us with ample provisions and comfortable accommodations.”

.   .   .

That was certainly true. The Saracens set aside a large tent for us, complete with soft rugs and warm, clean bedding that was carefully inspected for scorpions at bedtime. During the day, I rode close to Father, and thus I was able to listen as, over two weeks, his teachings covered a complete description of the Temple service as explained in Tractate Yoma, followed by details of various kinds of sin offerings from Tractate Horayot, and concluding with Tractate Arachim's procedure on how to vow or consecrate people and property to the Temple's treasury.

I also learned that camels were the world's most irritable and annoying beasts, which would bite people and one another without provocation. Yet without them, desert travel would be impossible. Besides going weeks without water, they could live off the rare scrawny, thorny plants that passed as vegetation in the desert. Plus they had an uncanny ability to find oases.

I came to appreciate the nomads' knowledge of the desert. Though the path seemed to disappear at times, they always led us back to it. Aware of our need for haste, and undoubtedly eager to be paid as soon as possible, they had us travel at night once there was sufficient moonlight. Winter was the busy, and lucrative, season for them, as few travelers would chance crossing the desert in spring or fall when the east wind could, and did, whip up sandstorms without warning. Only the most desperate would brave the summer heat.

As our third week of travel drew to a close, the desert gave way first to scrubland and then, as we gained elevation, to high forested hills that smelled quite different from Bavel's farmland. Yehudit was more alert now, and I could spend half an hour or more exchanging smiles with her between naps. I knew we'd be traveling in midwinter, but I had not realized how cold it would get. In truth, I had never experienced such bitter weather in my life. The Saracens distributed woolen cloaks, which I looked forward to replacing as soon as possible.

Approaching our destination didn't mean that our journey became less dangerous. To avoid strenuous climbs, the Saracens led us along wadi, trails following dry streambeds that could, without warning, become raging torrents if rain fell upstream. It being winter, rain was likely to fall sometime. If the stars favored us, we would never see a flooded wadi, and if we had average luck, we would merely have to avoid them. Our guides cautioned us to listen closely and be prepared to run from the streambed at the slightest sound of rain or rushing water. I clutched my
amulet tightly and repeated the protective prayer whenever we crossed a wadi.

Either our amulets and Heaven protected us, as it protects those occupied with performing a mitzvah, or perhaps our stars were lucky, because we reached a broad, verdant plain without difficulty. The camels, sensing water nearby, increased their pace, until we stood overlooking a wide valley below.

I gasped with delight, for in the middle of the valley was a giant lake. I had never seen such an enormous body of water.

“Father, do you think this is what Moses saw when Elohim allowed him to view Eretz Israel?”

Father wiped away some tears before he replied, “If not this exact view, then something like it.”

The head Saracen pointed down. “That is what you call the Sea of Tiberias. We should reach the city of that name in time for your Day of Rest.”

SECOND YEAR OF KING NARSEH'S REIGN

•     295
CE
     •

T
hank Heaven the rain held off until we reached Tiberias. We were met by Rabbi Assi and Rabbi Ami, leaders of the Beit Midrash, which was what remained of the Great Sanhedrin. Informed that Rav Huna had arrived, they had raced out to honor him despite the downpour, only to sag with disappointment upon learning that it was Rav Huna's body that had come to Eretz Israel, not the living master.

Their chagrin dissipated upon meeting Father, who was immediately pressed into teaching during his stay. Rav Huna must have anticipated this response, which explained why he'd insisted that an accomplished scholar like Father accompany his body. The rabbinic burial cave was located too far away to travel to that afternoon, and since the next day was Shabbat, Rav Huna's funeral was scheduled for First Day.

There was no lack of hosts for Father and Rabbah bar Huna, but my presence with an infant and two female slaves complicated matters. Eventually a woman arrived to take me to where we would spend Shabbat, and thus I made the acquaintance of the widow Yochani, daughter of gladiator-turned-rabbi Reish Lakish. Yochani actually resided in the nearby city of Sepphoris, but she often spent Shabbat with her son Eliezer's family in Tiberias. Unlike most cities in Eretz Israel, she told me proudly, these two were populated with more rabbinic Jews than
am-ha'aretz
.

Yochani was around Mother's age, a cheerful little bird of a woman. She won my admiration by admitting that no matter how her son pressed
her to move in with him, she knew his wife would be happier with a mother-in-law who only visited once a week. Eliezer's children were long past the toddler stage, and his family would be delighted to have a cute, smiling baby with her own nurse in residence.

After so many days seated on a camel, my legs wobbled as I followed Yochani to her son's home. “Perhaps I could walk around Tiberias a bit until my legs get used to supporting me again,” I suggested.

Yochani looked shocked. “You've been traveling for weeks and tonight is Shabbat. You must come with me to the bathhouse before the women's side is closed.”

“I don't need to immerse,” I said. “I'm a widow.” As the words came out, my eyes filled with tears.

Yochani patted my arm sympathetically. “The bathhouse is not a mikvah. I've been a widow for twenty years and it hasn't stopped me from bathing. Indeed, we have all day tomorrow to walk around town.”

Reluctant to offend anyone on my very first day in Eretz Israel, I agreed to go. Memories of how Tachlifa had praised the bathhouses in the West came back to me, and I grew curious to undergo the experience. So I left Yehudit with Nurse and Yochani's grandchildren, unpacked my Shabbat clothes, and brought them with me to wear after I was clean.

The streets of Tiberias, paved with large stones, would soon be slick with rainwater. But the sidewalks were sheltered by the buildings' second floors, supported with tall colonnades. As we walked I marveled at how different the stone buildings here looked from Sura's brick-and-plaster dwellings. Yochani, whose two slaves accompanied us, had me stop at a clothier's to buy winter cloaks for both Father and me. All the while she questioned me with such gentle thoroughness that by the time we reached the bathhouse she knew more about Rami's death and my difficult bereavement than anyone in my family.

“Once inside, you must put away all unhappy thoughts,” she told me. “Allow yourself to be pampered like a queen.”

I nodded and reassured myself that, though I'd never been to a bathhouse before, there was nothing to worry about. I would watch what the other women did and emulate them.

But my good intentions were thwarted immediately, as I had no small coins to pay the doorkeeper and had to borrow them from Yochani. We passed through a corridor to an unheated room with benches and niches for patrons' clothes, where we quickly undressed. One of the slaves
pushed open a heavy wooden door to a steamy room, and I hurried in to enjoy its warmth.

I imitated Yochani and sat down on a bench away from the door, feeling surprised and confused at the absence of pools or tubs. How did one bathe if there were no baths? I had little time to consider this, because immediately one of the slaves began soaping my hair and body. I closed my eyes and relaxed as she scrubbed my scalp, trying to recall how old a child I was when Nurse had stopped bathing me.

When Yochani stood up, I cautiously followed her into the next room, letting out my breath in awe when I saw all the women soaking in the large pools ahead. With soap dripping down my legs making the wet floors even more slippery, I held tight to the slave attending me as she led me to the nearest pool and helped me in. Despite all the steam, the water was disappointingly tepid, but I sat patiently while the slave rinsed away the soap.

When I opened my eyes, Yochani was waving at me to join her in a different pool. Leery of falling, I let the slave assist me in. But I stopped in shock when my foot touched the water.

“Ha-Elohim!” I burst out. “You could cook a chicken in here.”

Yochani laughed at my distress. “Take as much time as you need, child. You'll soon get used to it.”

I briefly considered returning to the tepid bath, but then realized that my feet were no longer burning. Slowly I made my way down the stairs, until with a final motion I sank into the water up to my neck.”

“Ah.” I sighed as the heat penetrated my body and my tight muscles relaxed.

“Let me introduce Hisdadukh,” Yochani said to the women on either side of her. “She's just arrived from Bavel.”

The one on her left raised a brow questioningly. “Hisdadukh?”

“It's Persian for Hisda's daughter,” I replied, wondering how many times I would have to explain my name in the West.

The women nodded to each other as if this were what one would expect from those strange Jews in the East.

I was just dozing off when Yochani addressed me loudly. “Come out now. It's time for your massage.”

I looked up to see a bath attendant waiting for me with a towel. “It's too bad it's raining,” she said. “Otherwise you could enjoy the gardens.”

Impressed that there were gardens too, I followed her to the room's edge, where a row of marble slabs lined the walls.

The attendant held out a tray containing small glass vials. “What fragrance do you prefer?”

I sniffed each vial—roses, balsam, myrrh, lotus, musk, and several unfamiliar scents—before choosing jasmine, a Persian flower for a Persian woman. Then I lay down on the warm stone. Next came the greatest physical pleasure I'd enjoyed since Rami died. Muscles tight from weeks atop a camel softened with the masseuse's expert ministrations, and I realized how much I missed the touch of another human being's hands on my body.

I sighed and was thinking what a shame it was that there were no such bathhouses in Bavel, when suddenly an audacious thought intruded—what if I didn't go back? Then I wouldn't have to give up Yehudit.

The idea of remaining in Eretz Israel was less appealing the next day, as a cold rain fell for all of Shabbat. Despite the miserable weather, Yochani honored her promise to show me around Tiberias. This turned out to be not as unpleasant as I'd anticipated, since besides the covered walkways carefully placed stones enabled us to cross the street high above the torrential flow of water that rushed along the pavement.

Wrapped in my warm, waterproof woolen cloak, I felt a kinship with Yochani, who spun stories of growing up within a rabbinic family that boasted the great Rabbi Yohanan's sister as mother and Reish Lakish as father. She too had passionately loved the husband of her youth and been devastated by his death, though she had not been widowed at quite so young an age. With a wink, she admitted that she'd been less fond of her second husband than of the
ketuba
she'd received at his death.