Apprentice (56 page)

S
usanna showed no surprise that her husband was accompanying us to Jerusalem for Tisha B'Av. Instead she was pleased that his presence would ensure us decent accommodations just outside the city. Evidently there was no place for Jews to stay in Jerusalem itself.

Our trip to what the Romans now called Aelia Capitolina was so unremarkable that I began to wonder if my earlier reaction to Rabbi Avahu had been warranted. His horse-drawn carriage was quite spacious, with two wide seats facing each other, plus room for luggage and slaves outside in the rear. The entire compartment was roofed, with a door opening on one side and a window on the other providing ventilation. Not that a larger amount of the hot and humid air would have made us any less uncomfortable, but I'd never ridden in such a luxurious vehicle before, and it was certainly better than riding donkeys or camels.

I was thankful that our carriage shaded us from the blazing summer sun. However, like the litters in Bavel, its primary purpose was to protect the occupants from inclement weather and curious onlookers. Allowing the traveler inside to enjoy the scenery was apparently a low priority, not that there was much to admire on our journey. Once we turned inland and left behind the fertile Plain of Sharon with its vistas of the Great Sea, all I could see were dun-colored hills covered by olive trees and flocks of sheep. If any crops grew here, they'd been harvested months ago.

Rabbi Avahu, who'd probably seen enough olive trees and sheep for a
lifetime, questioned me at length about Mishna study in Bavel. Naturally I didn't disclose Father's poor opinion of the students in Tiberias, but concentrated on reassuring him that scholars were thriving in Sura, Nehardea, Pumbedita, and Machoza, in addition to smaller communities. Not wanting to disappoint him, I said nothing about Jews who rejected the rabbis' authority. While Yochani grumbled that there were plenty of
am-ha'aretz
in the West, I had the impression that there were far more of them in Bavel.

“You are not persecuted by the Persians?” he asked, more curious than skeptical.

“Under the previous king, the high priest encouraged the Magi to interfere with our burials and Hanukah lamps,” I said. “But no Jews were injured or jailed, and our taxes remained the same as Persians. Now that King Narseh rules, we are not molested in any way. He only persecutes the Nazarenes.”

My three carriage companions made exclamations of surprise.

“Neither Persians nor Jews proselytize, so we get along well in this regard,” I explained. “Whereas the Nazarenes devote themselves to converting everyone to their heresy, which infuriates the Persians.”

“Of course, the Jews of Bavel have never revolted against their Persian rulers,” Susanna pointed out.

I was taken aback with Susanna's implication that Rome wouldn't have oppressed Israel if the Jews had not rebelled against them. Was her opinion common, or did she feel this way because of her husband's close ties with the government?

“Do many Jews believe that Jerusalem would still be standing if Israel had accepted Roman rule?” I asked, perhaps a little too boldly.

Rabbi Avahu's voice was firm. “Elohim decided to destroy Jerusalem because of Israel's sins. Rome was merely the instrument He chose to inflict the punishment.”

Chagrined, I promptly supported him. “That is what Father and the other scholars in Bavel say.”

He paused as the carriage lurched over some bumps in the road. “Did your father and his students discuss why Jerusalem was destroyed?”

“Many times,” I replied, relieved that I was not ignorant on the subject. “Father taught in the name of Rav that Jerusalem was destroyed because they demeaned Torah scholars, as it is written: ‘They mocked the messengers of Elohim and disdained His words…until the wrath of Adonai rose against His people.'”

He looked pleased and surprised. “Ulla says the city was destroyed because they had no shame for one another.” He then recited the verse from Jeremiah that supported this.

“Rav Hamnuna said it was because they turned children away from Torah study.” I too quoted a verse from Jeremiah for proof.

“Reish Lakish told Rabbi Judah Nesiah that any city in which children do not study Torah would be destroyed,” he concurred.

Could I possibly quote more scholars on the subject from Bavel than Rabbi Avahu could from the West? “Abaye said that Jerusalem was destroyed because they desecrated Shabbat and Abba bar Joseph said it was because truthful men had disappeared there,” I continued.

“Rabbi Chanina said it was because they did not admonish one another,” he added.

“Rav Yitzhak said that it was because the great and small were considered equal.” I was running out of sages, so in desperation I asked Rabbi Avahu, “What do you say?”

“I teach that Jerusalem was destroyed because they did not recite the Shema in the morning and evening.”

It was prudent to agree with my host. “Any Jew who is so debauched that he cannot perform even the simple mitzvah of reciting the Shema at the proper time is beyond redemption.”

Rabbi Avahu may have guessed that I was finished. He looked at me keenly and asked, “Were any of these Eastern scholars your unwanted suitors?”

I nodded and named Abba.

He smiled and proceeded to dispute Abba's statement. “Even during Jerusalem's downfall truthful men did not disappear.” He then quoted a complicated passage from the prophet Isaiah to prove that although the city's inhabitants were ignorant of Torah, they admitted the fact rather than lying and saying they'd forgotten it.

I couldn't believe it. I had just held my own in a debate with the great Rabbi Avahu! My satisfaction was tinged with sadness as I thought of how proud Rami and Grandfather would have been to hear me.

Amazingly, our trip from Caesarea to the outskirts of Jerusalem was accomplished in a single day, albeit a long and bumpy one. Not all our time was devoted to discussing heavy subjects. Yochani brought Susanna and Rabbi Avahu news of acquaintances in Sepphoris and Tiberias, and
they did the same for those in Caesarea and Akko. Knowing none of these people, I was content to watch the scenery outside and point out sheep to Yehudit. With the sun beating down, we spent much of the afternoon napping.

We ate our last frugal meal in the carriage shortly before sunset and arrived at our lodgings, the residence of the local Roman military commander, under the light of the three-quarter moon. Since we were fasting, it didn't matter that they had no kosher food for us.

We rose at dawn and were standing before the city gate in less than an hour. Not that the gate did anything to prevent people from entering, for the heavy stone walls were breached in many places and Jews were pouring in through all of them. Everyone was dressed in plain clothing, with some in sackcloth and ashes. Many faces were already streaked with tears.

I was too shocked to cry, for the destruction around me was overwhelming. Blackened bricks and stones lay piled everywhere, all that remained of the once-celebrated homes and shops. To remind the Jews of their defeat, the Romans had prevented anyone from clearing the roads for two hundred years. Thus it was a continuous struggle, as I made my way among the ruins, between staring at the devastation around me and trying to avoid falling over the rubble at my feet.

The crowds grew larger, and I held tight to Yochani and Nurse. Bowed with sorrow, or intent on not tripping, everyone was heading in the same direction, toward the ruins of the Holy Temple itself. There, bewailing our momentous loss, we would pray the morning service and chant Lamentations. I felt the pressure of sorrow growing within me, and knew that at any moment it would break and my tears would start streaming.

The streets were more crowded than those around Ezekiel's tomb on Shavuot, and I feared that people would be trampled. High on what remained of the city walls, Roman soldiers stood ready to maintain order, but mostly they mocked the defeated, miserable multitude below. When our progress slowed, I wondered if Rabbi Avahu would use his status to get us close to the ruins, just as the exilarch had gotten our family into Ezekiel's Synagogue years before. But the swarm of people continued walking.

Eventually we turned a corner, and the scene took my breath away. A giant wall towered over a flat area somewhat cleared of debris, creating a broad courtyard. Men and women filled the space, swaying to and fro as
they prayed. But mostly they cried, and their myriad moans and wails combined to sound as though the very earth was keening her grief. I could understand why the Rabbis said these ruins filled with demons at night.

As tears poured down Yochani's cheeks, I felt my own eyes grow wet and overflow, but it was only when Yehudit began to bawl that I started to sob and shake with a sorrow I hadn't felt since Rami's funeral. My feeling of hopelessness was overwhelming.

One day the Temple would be rebuilt, possibly even in our lifetime. But my Rami was gone forever.

When we reached the massive stone ruins and stood dwarfed beneath them, I had no voice to recite the morning service. I let others say it for me, mouthing the words with them. As we came to the final refrain of Lamentations, “Take us back to You, Adonai, and we shall return; renew our days as of old,” it seemed that our cries rose and assailed the Heavens themselves.

I stumbled away with the others, wandering numbly past the fallen stones and crumbled walls until it was time for the afternoon service. The sun beat down on us with a vengeance, and the air was heavy with the stink of thousands of sweaty, unwashed, and unperfumed bodies. Thankfully, I was able to find a shaded spot to suckle Yehudit.

Finally the sun set and my ordeal was over. When we arrived at Rabbi Avahu's carriage, his slaves were waiting with a hearty meal and plenty to drink. I couldn't imagine where they procured it, but I didn't care. I gobbled it down and sank into the soft carriage cushions for the short ride back to the commander's residence. I felt exhausted, but I was unable to fall asleep. For even after I remarried—and from my undeniable response to Rabbi Avahu's charm I knew I must before my
yetzer hara
overpowered me—my days would never be renewed as of old.

Given Rabbi Avahu's pressing schedule, I was surprised, and a little anxious, when he agreed to Susanna's request that we take two leisurely days to return to Caesarea via the cooler coastal road, rather than rush back the way we'd come. Even hearing him say that this would give him a chance to do some business in the port city of Jaffa did little to calm the unease I felt at being attracted to the man against my will.

My disquiet increased when, once Yochani and Susanna finished gushing about how there was nothing like a good cry to make a person feel better, he turned to me with an animated expression. “It seems to me
that, having lived among the Persians all your life, you should have some knowledge of their ways.”

I nodded. “Their beliefs are no secret.”

Susanna leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Do they really worship fire?”

“Not really,” I replied. “Like Israel, they believe in one God, Who created the world and everything in it. Seven of His creations are considered holy: fire, water, earth, metal, air, good animals, and people. From what I've heard, they worship their God, whose name is Ahura Mazda, with sacrifices at fire altars in their temples, but they don't actually worship the fire itself.”

“So they're not idol worshippers?” Rav Avahu asked, his forehead creased with thought.

I shook my head vehemently. “They hate idolaters and destroy all pagan idols of the people they conquer.”

“Tell us more.” He leaned closer, and I could smell his distinctly masculine odor, not yet diluted by any perfume.

I tried to ignore it and recall what I'd learned from Kimchit's and Rahel's Persian clients. Not that we discussed religion specifically, but sometimes our different customs and rituals came up in conversation. I would start with the similarities.

“Persians believe that people were created to do good and fight evil, and to bear children who will do the same,” I began. “They are admonished to have good thoughts, good speech, and good deeds, for when they die Mazda will judge them on these to determine whether they merit paradise or everlasting torment.”

My three companions looked both surprised and intrigued, for they had surely heard many foul rumors about Rome's enemy.

“If, as you say, Persians believe that their God wants them to procreate to fight evil,” Rabbi Avahu spoke as if addressing a court, “then they would consider the Nazarenes, who practice celibacy, to be abetting evil. That would be another reason why the Persians persecute them and not the Jews.”

It was my turn for astonishment. “Nazarenes are celibate? How can any people survive if they don't procreate?” And how did they manage to find converts who were willing to forgo the pleasures of the marital bed?

“Evidently not all of them are celibate,” Susanna replied archly. “But let's not talk about them until you've told us all about the Persians.”