Apprentice (5 page)

Sure that Father would solve the problem, I waited eagerly to see how this would happen.

Abba defended his opinion. “Perhaps the Mishna refers to Jewish children while the Baraita deals with Persian children, students of the Magi. Then we would have no contradiction.”

“Yet another Baraita teaches: one who owns a house in a courtyard may not rent it to a mohel, a bloodletter, a Jewish teacher, or a non-Jewish teacher.” Rami smiled with pride at how he had refuted Abba.

Father gestured for Rami to repeat the Baraita until everyone learned it. “That is an excellent teaching.” He paused as Rami beamed at being praised. “However, the Jewish teacher it refers to is the head teacher of the town, who will have many more people—children, parents, other teachers—going in and out of the courtyard than an ordinary Jewish teacher.”

Abba half rose from his cushion, eager to state the resolution he had championed, but Father called on my brother Mari to close the discussion. “So there is no contradiction. The Mishna and Nachman's Baraita refer to different situations,” Mari concluded. “The noisy children who must be tolerated in our Mishna are students of a Jewish teacher, while in the Baraita it is a pagan who may be prevented from teaching in the courtyard.”

I was still trying to understand the entire argument when I realized that Father hadn't dismissed the class. Instead, he put his arm around me and waited for Rami and Abba to approach. The two students shifted their weight from one leg to the other and looked from Father to me and back to Father again.

Father wasn't angry, yet I was filled with apprehension. I couldn't imagine why I was being singled out in front of the class. Had I done something wrong? Was he going to demand an explanation for my presence or forbid me from returning? And why were Rami and Abba just
standing there in silence instead of showering him with questions? Surely Father wouldn't chastise me in front of his students, or them in front of me. I tried desperately to conquer my dread as I waited for him to speak.

“Hisdadukh.” Father's voice was gentle. “Which of these two would you like to marry?”

The silence as everyone awaited my answer pushed hard against my chest, threatening to suffocate me. My throat was so constricted it was all I could do to whisper, “Both of them.”

No one was more astounded than I at what I'd said. I was so desperate to escape the scrutiny that followed that I barely heard Abba declare that he wanted to be last.

The next day Grandfather told Mother that he wanted me to study with him rather than with the children's tutor. I'm sure she never would have agreed if I had asked, but she couldn't very well say no to her own father.

Her response was to mutter, “I suppose you would be unwilling to sit with her in Pinchas's class.”

My brother Pinchas taught the beginners' Mishna class to my nephews once they'd become proficient in scripture. After a few years memorizing Mishna there, they moved up to study with Father.

Grandfather's bushy gray eyebrows narrowed with such disdain that no answer was necessary.

Mother shook her head in exasperation, but not so hard as to disarrange her dark curls, and at that moment I could see the likeness that marked them as father and daughter. Both had the same narrow jaw and long regal neck, although Grandfather's were slightly obscured by his beard. Nurse said that I shared these features as well.

“I thought not,” Mother said. “Still, Hisdadukh must spend two mornings a week with her arithmetic tutor, until she knows multiplication and division.”

When he nodded, she turned to me. “There is no reason why you cannot spin flax thread during your new studies.”

I held up my spindle and distaff in agreement. Grandfather then walked us to the
kiton
he shared with my nephews—he was too old and they too young to climb three ladders to the roof—and showed me a beautifully bound codex. Unlike a scroll, whose pages were sewn to one another at the sides, the codex pages were all sewn together at one edge, thus making it simple to turn to whatever page one wanted.

He thumbed through it to find his place and handed it to me. “Can you please read aloud from the top of this page?”

It was written in Hebrew, not Aramaic, and it was not from the Torah. “A pool for steeping flax may not be kept near vegetables.” I slowly sounded out the unfamiliar words.

“Continue.” Grandfather gestured to me to go on.

After a few more words, I looked up at Grandfather and smiled. “This is what Father was teaching today, but he didn't read from a book.”

“Indeed not. My son-in-law knows the entire Mishna by heart.” Grandfather sat down on a cushion next to me. “You will be responsible for ensuring that I still know it too.”

We continued through the second chapter of Bava Batra, with Grandfather reciting and me following along in the codex, correcting him as necessary.

“Nor onions kept near leeks, nor mustard plants near bees,” said Grandfather. “Rabbi Yohanan permits mustard plants.”

I didn't want to embarrass him, but that wasn't exactly how the Mishna was written. I knew he would insist on avoiding even the smallest error, so I took a deep breath and corrected him. “Nor leeks kept near onions,” I said slowly. “And Rabbi Yose permits mustard plants, not Rabbi Yohanan.”

To my relief, Grandfather wasn't angry. He merely repeated the words after me several times before we continued to the next Mishna, which he also remembered somewhat incorrectly. But I patiently supplied the accurate text and continued to do so whenever he stumbled, grateful that Grandfather's shame at his faltering memory had made him turn to me for help rather than any of the males in our family. As we continued, I fervently thanked Elohim for this incredible opportunity.

Perusing the book later, I again thanked Elohim for providing me with its written text. It would help me remember Father's lesson afterward, and even better, I could read ahead and see what Mishna he was going to teach next. Studying Mishna was going to be more exciting than learning Torah with my tutor, plus it was a way to spend time with my beloved grandfather.

Despite my studies with Grandfather, I still ate in the kitchen with the young children and their nurses. When Achti became betrothed to Ukva, the same year Keshisha began studying with Father, they were both
allowed to join our parents, our six older brothers and their wives, plus Father's students, in formal meals. The entire family dined together only on Shabbat.

But it wasn't long before Keshisha was back in the kitchen, teasing me. “Just because Abraham had two wives, Dada thinks she can have two husbands.”

Keshisha was only a few years older than me, but nobody would have taken him for my brother. He and Achti had dark olive skin and a square jaw like Father, while my pale skin and narrow jaw matched Mother's. In addition, they had Mother's prominent nose while mine was nondescript like Father's.

I replied, “Did you come back here to bother me, or do they think you're too childish to eat with the adults?”

“Dada, you have no idea how long and dull the speeches are in there.” He gestured toward the
traklin
. “I'll take old Timonus's war stories any day.”

Timonus had been Father's slave for over twenty years, starting as doorkeeper and working his way up to steward. Before that he had been a soldier, and the children, especially the boys, asked again and again about his adventures in the Roman army. He never told the same story twice, or at least not in the same way. I was fascinated with his early years stationed in Jerusalem, where his unit was responsible for preventing Jews from entering the city.

That he had actually stood on such holy ground gave him a special stature in our household, even if he was a slave. But his stories about Jerusalem were never solemn; they usually involved the myriad ways he had acted as guide for those Jews with sufficient funds to bribe him for a look at the ruins of the Holy Temple.

“Jerusalem was the ideal post for a clever soldier,” Timonus said. “No danger from an opposing army, and always Jews willing to pay well for a tour of the city.”

“We've heard a hundred stories about Jerusalem,” Keshisha interrupted. “Tell everyone about the war between Persia and Rome, when King Shapur defeated Valerian and you were captured and sold to Father.”

Timonus eyed the roomful of children warily, but his hesitation was overcome by a chorus of encouragement from the other boys. And not just the younger boys, for several of Father's students had joined us—including Abba bar Joseph.

“Eventually my luck ran out and I lost my post in Jerusalem.” Timonus waited to make sure he had everyone's attention. “But I would have lost that post in any case, for the new emperor, Valerian, ordered the entire legion mobilized for another campaign against Persia. He was determined to regain the territories that King Shapur had conquered and to revenge the humiliating defeat that forced the emperor Philip to pay Shapur over five hundred thousand golden dinars.”

As always, Timonus's audience gasped in awe at the enormous ransom. The children in my immediate family all knew how our king Shapur had first defeated Rome forty years ago, but perhaps the newcomers did not.

“The stars were lucky for me,” Timonus continued. “My regiment wasn't called up until after the Persians sacked Syria.

“Emperor Valerian was so furious at how the upstart Persia had triumphed over Rome, mightiest nation in the world, that he accused his generals of incompetence and insisted on leading the next battle personally. He gathered a huge army, seventy thousand strong including myself, and marched us to Edessa to teach Shapur a lesson.”

A nephew waved his arm to get the steward's attention. “Did you have your own sword or did they give you one?”

“A soldier always has his own armor and sword,” Timonus said firmly. “Along with the others, I was issued a shield and javelin after the army assembled. Nearly all of us were infantry on foot, though we had a small cavalry. However, this time our forces included the elite Praetorian Guards, the emperor's own bodyguards and the most feared soldiers in Rome.”

He stopped to drink another cup of wine. “Shapur, on the other hand, had only about forty thousand troops, nearly all of them on horseback. Naturally Valerian assumed, as did the rest of us, that Rome's superior numbers would be decisive. We all looked forward to easy pickings.”

Timonus's tone made it clear that the Roman assumptions were wrong. “Nobody realized the power of the Persian cavalry. I remember that battle as if it were yesterday. The centurion woke us just before dawn. The air smelled of campfire smoke and the sky was as pink as a harlot's cheeks. I was worried about my shield since the leather strap had begun to fray, but there was no time to get a replacement.”

Even I, who'd heard this tale many times, leaned forward to hear better. The boys around me sat rapt with attention.

“As usual Valerian deployed us in square formations and marched us straight at the enemy. I was positioned in the middle, but I still had a good view when the Persians sent forward their horse archers, who only inflicted minimal casualties before pulling back.”

Timonus's eyes shone with excitement, and it seemed to me that he was telling this story with more enthusiasm than usual. “We immediately broke ranks to pursue them, but then, as the archers rode away, I witnessed the most astounding sight. They turned around in their saddles and loosed thousands of arrows at us, all while continuing to ride at full speed. Their accuracy was incredible. All around me men went down, Persian arrows piercing our wooden shields and armor with ease. Thank my lucky stars I wasn't hit.”

“So the Persians had only been feigning retreat?” A boy asked.

Timonus nodded vigorously. “Not only that, but Shapur had kept the heavy cavalry behind. It was only then, with our casualties mounting, that the Persian cavalry charged. Throwing spears as they rode us down, they cut through the Roman formations like a knife through cheese.”

I could hear the awe in Timonus's voice as he continued to describe Shapur's army. “My comrades and I had only short stabbing swords and thin javelins, so we were completely unequipped to fight horsemen swinging maces and long swords. A few of us on the ground tried to use their spears against them, but it was useless. Before we knew it, they had utterly devastated our legion.”

Timonus paused to catch his breath. “The entire seventy-thousand-strong Roman force was slain or captured, while Shapur's army suffered only mild casualties. Valerian was led away in chains. My lucky stars were still protecting me, however, for I merely suffered a spear wound on my arm instead of one through my belly.”

A student raised his hand. “So how did you enter Rav Hisda's household?”

“Shapur sent the captured soldiers, including Valerian, to settle new cities in the east,” Timonus replied. “Heaven knows where I would have ended up if I hadn't gotten dysentery. They abandoned me in Pumbedita, where Master Hisda bought me to be his bodyguard.”

The other boys soon returned to their meal. But when Abba bar Joseph, a far too serious expression on his youthful face, approached our steward, I moved near enough to hear their conversation.

“Does the emperor Carus intend to sack Ctesiphon and its suburbs as retribution for how King Shapur humiliated Valerian?” Abba asked urgently. I recalled maps of Persia our tutor had shown us and realized that Abba's home city of Machoza was just across the Tigris River from the capital, Ctesiphon.

Timonus looked around in alarm, then put his finger to his lips. “We don't discuss this in front of the children,” he whispered. “We don't want to upset them.”

Abba stood where he was, waiting. Finally Timonus gestured for Abba to follow him to the pantry. Desperate for information about the big mystery, I tiptoed along behind them. I couldn't see them, but I could hear Timonus distinctly.