Apprentice (51 page)

Before I could speak, he held up his hand to stop me. “I apologize for the poor conditions, but this is the only inn in Rakka that doesn't also serve as a brothel. Not that those establishments are any cleaner.”

So I said instead, “Considering the multitude outside, we are fortunate to be sleeping under a roof at all.”

“Tachlifa will stay with you at night, while the slaves and I guard our merchandise,” Samuel said.

I nodded, aware that the crowded conditions would provide thieves with easy pickings. To my surprise, a not unpleasant odor emanated from the kitchen below, and my stomach growled in response. Was it time for the evening meal already?

“I hope our room comes with board,” I said.

“We'll all take our meals here, in shifts, of course,” he replied. “The food isn't bad.”

The fare, fish and legume stew, was actually quite tasty, or at least seemed so as a result of my hunger. Sometime during the night, I was jolted awake by banging on our door. But the voice yelling at us belonged to Samuel, not some drunkard.

“Wake up, wake up!” Samuel banged on the door again, causing curses to rain down from the other lodgers.

Tachlifa cracked open the door. “What's the matter?”

Samuel pushed his way in. “Nothing's the matter. In fact, the stars have favored us. If you can be ready in an hour, there's a boat going to Kafri that will leave us off in Sura.”

Tachlifa threw on his clothes. “How did this miracle happen?”

“Two merchants at the front of the line want to go to Kafri, but the boatmen won't waste their efforts unless all the passengers pay to go that far south,” Samuel explained. “So they started calling for others traveling to Kafri, and I told them we'd pay the fare for Kafri, if we could get off at Sura.”

“Quick thinking,” Tachlifa said as he gathered our luggage.

“I need to nurse the baby,” I said. “Then we can meet you at the dock.”

“No need to hurry,” Samuel replied. “We still have to sell the camels, buy provisions, and get our goods loaded.”

The sky was the palest shade of pink when our barge floated away from the dock. We were a cheerful group: the boatmen because the voyage downstream on the rain-swollen river entailed little effort, the other passengers because they'd been able to depart without delay, but we were the happiest of all at having legitimately avoided a lengthy wait.

We learned that our companions, two graybeards who bickered good-naturedly
like an old married couple, not only resided in Kafri, but the taller one was acquainted with Father and Yenuka. Traveling by camel meant giving some attention to guiding the beast, but once on board, there was little for a ship's passengers to do besides observe the countryside, talk, and sleep. The Kafri merchants, who'd been making the trip between Bavel and the Great Sea for over thirty years, inundated Samuel and Tachlifa with advice gained from their vast experience.

I was thankful that the Euphrates, despite its swiftness, caused none of the seasickness I'd suffered on the Great Sea. I passed the time playing with Yehudit and weaving many lengths of red silk ribbon, noting with satisfaction that my journey would be profitable along with my brother's.

As the waxing moon grew fuller each night, it became apparent that we would be celebrating Purim on our journey. This was a relief for me, as I couldn't imagine enduring such raucous festivity so near the first anniversary of Rami's death. My shipmates discussed stopping at a riverside Jewish community to hear the Megillah read, but that was ruled out when it looked as if we would be too far from a Jewish town that day.

One of the merchants, realizing that my brother was a scholar, suggested that Tachlifa should recite the text for us. I looked at him with some anxiety, because the Mishna explicitly states that the Megillah must be read from a written scroll, not from memory. Tachlifa felt bad at having to refuse the trader's request, especially since they had done us the favor of sharing their boat. But even had there been materials onboard to write a Megillah, Father specifically forbade a scribe from writing even one letter of a scriptural scroll from memory. The entire text must be in front of him.

My clever brother did manage to persuade the boatmen to stop at a Jewish town before Purim so he could purchase a Megillah scroll. It helped that waterside settlements were more frequent as we approached Bavel's border, but more important to the boatmen, no doubt, was the need to take on additional provisions.

Thus I had the unique experience of fulfilling the mitzvah of Purim by hearing Tachlifa read the story of Esther and Mordecai on a barge sailing down the Euphrates. After Purim we began to see increasing traffic on the river, which meant that it wouldn't be long until we passed through Pumbedita and Nehardea. I had hoped we might stop at one of the great cities at least, but the men on board were too eager to see their families again to indulge me.

I, however, had decidedly mixed feelings about seeing my family again. While it would be good to see my parents, brothers, and sisters-in-law, I feared difficulties with Achti when she learned that I intended to raise Yehudit myself, and with Ukva when I asked for my
ketuba
. And with both of them when I insisted on seeing Chama.

My greatest anxiety concerned my son. Would I feel worse if he recognized me or if he didn't? In Sepphoris I had managed to find a balance between forgetting Chama and Rami and grieving overmuch for them. But what if all my memories of Rami resurfaced in Sura and overwhelmed me with melancholy?

And what of my
charasheta
training? Would Rahel allow me to inscribe and install
kasa d'charasha
again? Would my amulet clients return despite the misfortunes I'd suffered? Or would I be reduced to weaving red silk ribbons?

I had answers to the last questions almost immediately upon arriving. After Tachlifa and Samuel hurried off to be alone with Pazi and Tazi, Rahel ran out and embraced me warmly. “Thank Heaven there's still time for you to help me with all the bowls I need to finish before Pesach,” she said. “As long as you're not
dashtana
yet.”

Smiling, I shook my head. “I'm still nursing Yehudit.”

“That's a relief. I thought you'd be home sooner, so I foolishly took on too much work.”

“I thought nobody wanted my incantations anymore, not after…” My chin was quivering so much it was impossible to speak.

“That was over a year ago, Dada, and in the meantime you've been in Eretz Israel.” Rahel's voice exuded confidence. “You have two healthy children, no miscarriages, and your labor was the shortest anyone in Sura can remember. Pregnant women are clamoring for your bowls and amulets.”

Father's students were gone for the festival, so the next day I asked him to accompany me to see Ukva about my
ketuba
.

“Are you sure you want to go to their home?” he asked me. “It might be better for Ukva to come to the villa.”

I looked up at his face, which was etched with concern, and shook my head. “I've been a widow for over a year, and they're not living in the same place as before.” I hesitated before adding, “I haven't seen my son in months. I miss him.”

Father sighed and said, “Very well.”

We were halfway there when I realized it might be as painful for Father to see Yehezkel as for me to see Chama.

When we arrived, Achti and Ukva looked nervously at each other before welcoming us inside. Within moments, two boys peeked out the doorway to see who the visitors were.

“Come kiss your grandfather,” Achti urged them. She hesitated for some time before continuing, “And give another kiss to my sister, Dada.”

Yehezkel's face lit with recognition. “Auntie, you're back from Eretz Israel. I've been studying Torah, and Mother told me you went there.”

Father looked proud to hear that, but I waited with trepidation for Chama to speak. He was gazing at me with curious uncertainty, as if I looked familiar but he wasn't sure why. My heart was pounding as I forced myself to stand there smiling instead of running up and pulling him into my arms.

Finally my son decided that he did know me somehow, for he followed Yehezkel's example of calling me Auntie and allowed me to embrace him. While I knew it was best for him not to remember a mother who'd seemingly abandoned him, inside my heart was breaking.

Achti's relief was palpable as she nearly collapsed into Ukva's arms. But she soon recovered sufficiently to offer us food and drink while Ukva hurried upstairs. The boys eagerly joined us for dried fruits and cheese and, to mark the happy occasion, some honeycomb and walnuts. Yehezkel still wasn't wearing a slave collar, but that didn't mean he was free.

Moments later Ukva handed me a large piece of parchment. “I've been meaning to give you this for some time. It's a deed to some of Rami's land. You should find it adequate for your
ketuba
.”

I knew I would start crying if I tried to speak, so I appealed to Father with my eyes. He took the deed, read it carefully, and put it in his sleeve.

“It appears to be in order,” he replied, and began to gently question his grandsons about what they'd been learning.

I somehow managed to restrain my tears until we were outside, but then I wept all the way back to our front gate.

Now that I was officially Chama's auntie and Father seemed reconciled to Yehezkel, Mother insisted that Achti and Ukva spend Pesach week at the villa. To my surprise, seeing Chama every day brought me more pleasure than sorrow. I couldn't help but beam when Chama insistently asked “Why?” each time Father expanded on another child's reply to his Ma
Nishtana, ‘Why is this night different?' question. Ukva and Achti looked so pleased that I knew I needn't worry whether they truly cared for him.

When the festival week ended and Father's students slowly returned to his classroom, I prepared myself to avoid Abba bar Joseph as much as possible and to act indifferent to his presence when I was forced to endure it. He, strangely, was the model of cordiality and would have sought me out more had I permitted it. Fortunately, between caring for Yehudit and producing
kasa d'charasha
, I wasn't lying when I told him I was too busy to speak with him.

It was on Fifth Day, just over a month after Pesach, when Nurse approached me in the garden where I was inscribing a bowl. “Mistress has a visitor who declines to give her name.” Nurse's tone conveyed her disapproval. “I have never seen her before.”

I assumed it must be a skittish new client. “I will meet her in the small room off the
traklin
,” I said, thankful that Mother was away and all the students were in court with Father. “Ask a kitchen slave to bring us some beer and dried fruit.”

I entered the chamber from the garden, pushing away memories of the wedding week I'd spent with Rami in this room. The young woman was shown in, and I immediately concluded that she was barren. Perhaps it was her gaunt, hard features; such a woman couldn't possibly be a mother. I was trying to decide the kindest way to reveal that I couldn't help her, so I didn't pay close attention to what she was saying.

It was only when she raised her voice that I finally realized she was here for an entirely different reason.

“I said that my name is Choran.” She spoke as though I was her subordinate. “I'm here to discuss the division of duties once you've become Abba's second wife. But first I want to make it abundantly clear that I will be the one in charge.”

Me? Abba bar Joseph's second wife? I nearly choked on my beer. What the devil had happened while I was away?

As Choran blathered on, my mind raged with indignation until I could stand it no more. I stood up and declared, “You've made a mistake or been misinformed.” Perhaps it was my
kasa d'charasha
training, but I kept my voice steady. “For I have no intention of ever being Abba's, or any man's for that matter, second wife. This discussion is over.”

I told a slave to see the visitor out, and then I escaped back to the garden.

I
don't know how long I stood in the garden, my mind reeling and my hands trembling so violently that inscribing bowls was impossible. When I heard footsteps approaching, I spun around, intending to tell whoever was coming to leave me alone.

But it was Mother.

I broke into tears and threw myself into her outstretched arms. “Tell me it isn't true,” I begged her. “Tell me that Abba bar Joseph, the man I loathe above all others, hasn't arranged to marry me.”

Mother looked at me in dismay. “We thought you were rejecting those other suitors because you wanted to marry him. That is what you said.”

“I said that over ten years ago, when I was merely a girl.” I resolutely returned Mother's gaze. “I am absolutely certain that I do not want to marry him now.”

“You are a grown woman, Hisdadukh. If you don't want to marry the man, then don't,” she said firmly. “But your father has entered into betrothal negotiations on your behalf, so you must speak to him about annulling the agreement.”