Apprentice (68 page)

FIFTH YEAR OF KING NARSEH'S REIGN

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vidently he knew some Hebrew after all.

The next moment he took my hand. I knew I should speak, but I didn't want to spoil our serenity. For some time I imagined saying yes, followed by him taking me in his arms. Finally I gave up what I knew was only a fantasy and pulled my hand away.

“Salaman, I can't marry you.”

He sighed heavily. “I know. You're from a priestly family, your father heads a
beit din
, and all your brothers are rabbis,” he said. “We're not from the same class. We don't share the same values.”

While all that was true, it wasn't what I meant. “I said I cannot marry you, not that I would not marry you.”

“I don't understand.”

So I explained, again, about my invalid betrothal.

Salaman rolled his eyes. “So write your so-called fiancé a divorce and send it to him. Be rid of the man.”

“I can't do that. The Rabbis say that only a man can initiate a divorce.”

To my shock, Salaman, who I'd never seen even raise his voice in anger, exploded. “Outrageous! This is exactly the reason I don't follow your Rabbis, these self-appointed arbiters of Jewish Law.” He furiously stalked across his newly laid floor. “Who gave them the authority to invent this so-called Oral Law? To change the Torah so it means whatever they say it does? Not me and not most Jews.”

“What would you have me do?” I demanded. “Repudiate my family and everything they believe to marry you?”

He ignored my question and kept shouting. “Here in Eretz Israel, Jewish women divorce their husbands if they wish. My sister divorced her first husband when he lost too much money gambling, and then married my current brother-in-law without anyone protesting. If you're going to live here, you should follow our rules, not those in Bavel.”

I knew that Jews like Salaman didn't follow the Rabbis or accept the Mishna, but I thought it was mostly over disparities like not saying blessings and the importance of Torah study. If we differed over such crucial matters as what constituted a betrothal or who could divorce whom, then rabbinic Jews and
am-ha'aretz
could never intermarry. No matter how much I was attracted to Salaman and enjoyed being with him, he was not an appropriate husband for me.

“Salaman, please.” I could feel my chin quivering and I stopped to control myself. “I don't want to fight with you.”

“I'm sorry, Dodi.” His voice was sad too. “The last thing I want is to cause you pain.”

I brushed away tears and looked up at him. “You were right about all the reasons we shouldn't marry, but that doesn't make it easier to accept.” Inside I railed against the fate that had set Salaman and me in two incompatible worlds.

“I know.” He paused for a moment and seemed to be making a decision. “So unless you or Yochani can recommend someone for me, I will likely go to Rabbi Avahu's for Tu B'Av this summer and find a bride there.”

I sniffed back my tears, determined to hide the blow his words had dealt me. Of course Salaman would want a virgin for his first wife, not a widow with children. “I don't know many maidens in Sepphoris, but I can ask Yochani.”

“Are you going to Caesarea for Pesach again?” he asked. “If so, we could travel together.”

I made my decision that instant. “No, I'm going to Tiberias with Yochani.”

“That's right, you have a friend there,” he said coolly. “A Chaldean rabbi.”

Though it was quite unworthy of me, and I was filled with remorse for even thinking it, I still felt a small sense of recompense that Salaman should be jealous too.

.   .   .

Two days later, when Simeon's family arrived from Tyre on their way to Tiberias for Pesach, I was doubly appreciative to accompany them. In addition to saving me from Salaman's painful company in Caesarea, Simeon had all the latest news about the continuing Roman assault. He also brought me a new supply of red silk thread, which made me realize how many amulets I'd been inscribing, because my stock was nearly gone.

For his part, Simeon and his wife were in excellent spirits, a perfect tonic for my misery. Not only had the war driven up prices, but Rosh Hashana would start the Sabbatical year, the one year in seven when the Torah commanded Jews in Eretz Israel to leave their land fallow. Since all agricultural activity—plowing, planting, pruning, harvesting—was also prohibited, grain and produce had to be imported. As a result, merchants such as Simeon stood to profit highly.

Simeon had further good news, at least as far as Rome was concerned. Galerius had pushed the Persian troops out of Mesopotamia, forcing them to retreat into Armenia. The rugged terrain there was favorable to Roman infantry, but not so for King Narseh's cavalry. Simeon, convinced that locals would aid Galerius, expected Rome to prevail.

Hopeful that the war would end imminently, I rode into Tiberias in good spirits. My mood lifted higher when we arrived and I learned that Rav Zeira, perhaps hoping to spend the festival week in my company, had gone to Caesarea for Pesach with Rabbi Avahu. Every time I thought of Zeira and Salaman together there without me, it made me smile.

Thus the week passed pleasantly, with Simeon's four-year-old daughter making a good companion for Yehudit. My heart swelled as I watched them laugh and play together with the old bowls and pots that had been replaced for Pesach, but I nearly burst with pride at how well Yehudit could now read Torah. My daughter was my treasure, one I wouldn't have to give up until she married, and maybe not even then if I found her a local husband as Mother had for Achti and me.

Eliezer took us to see the birds at the Hula swamplands twice, the second visit being necessary because the first site had too many mosquitoes. Simeon's year-old son entertained us by taking his first unsteady steps, which only served to remind me that normally I would have had another child by now. The Rabbis said that a previously fertile woman became barren if she didn't lie with a man for ten years. It had already
been almost five since Rami's death, and my prospects for another marriage and more children seemed more remote than ever.

As the New Year approached, an abundance of wheat appeared in the souk and was snatched up as quickly as it had materialized.

“Jews in Israel hurry to harvest their grain and plant a new crop before the Sabbatical year begins,” Yochani explained.

“Then what happens? What will the farmers do for income?”

“The less pious will plow, plant, and harvest as usual, saying the old Laws don't apply now that Israel is ruled by Rome,” she said sadly. “Others try to make do with what grows naturally and pray for sustenance from Heaven.”

“Can they arrange for their pagan neighbors to help?”

“Those who can, do, but every year more and more Jews relent and work their land.” Yochani sighed. “After all, the Romans collect their taxes and want their soldiers fed whether it's a Sabbatical year or not.”

“We won't go hungry, will we?” I asked anxiously.

She shook her head. “Cities have the resources to bring in food from abroad. It's the villagers who suffer.”

Simeon's family returned to celebrate Rosh Hashana in Tiberias. But this time his news was devastating. As he'd predicted, Galerius had defeated Narseh in Armenia. Amazingly, Roman forces completely routed the Persians, capturing the king's harem, his wife, and their children. The poor queen and royal children were to live out the remainder of the war in Syria, a humiliating reminder of Persia's loss. Simeon chortled lecherously at how Narseh's harem had been distributed to the Roman officers as booty.

I cringed at the account, growing more distraught as I recognized that the war was far from over. Galerius, not content with merely seizing Narseh's family and holding them for ransom, was determined to further avenge his previous shame by driving his army east toward Nisibis, deep into Persian territory. From there it would be an easy passage down the Euphrates to Ctesiphon, the heart of Bavel.

My throat tightened in fear as memories flooded back of frightened relatives fleeing to my childhood home in Kafri when Rome last sacked the Persian capital. I kept hearing Abba bar Joseph's terrified voice as he questioned Timonus about the war. Ironically, I found some solace with Rav Zeira, who was even more apprehensive than I. My family, after all,
was in Sura, away from the probable war zone, while his friends and colleagues were in Pumbedita and Nehardea, directly on the river. We prayed ardently that the Persian garrison at Nisibis would successfully defend their city and stop the Roman advance.

But our prayers were in vain. When we returned to Sepphoris, Julia and Claudia had word that the Romans had secured Nisibis before Sukkot. Narseh was begging for peace, but Galerius refused the Persian envoys and ordered his men down the Tigris toward Ctesiphon. I could only be grateful that they weren't on the Euphrates instead.

Making me feel worse, the Jewish community of Sepphoris had been invited to the wedding of Salaman ben Marcus and Valeria bat Yosi, to take place on the first day of the following month.

Yochani insisted that we attend, while I, unable to endure the thought of Salaman bedding his bride in the next room, insisted with equal vigor that I would not remain past the wedding meal. In the end we compromised on staying through the dancing but leaving before the couple entered the bridal chamber. I wore the yellow silk and wool outfit that I'd first worn to Judah Nesiah's at Hanukah.

Had it really been three years since that night when I'd first agreed to pose for Salaman's mosaic?

Salaman noticed me immediately when we arrived, and his wistful expression made me pity him as much as I pitied myself. His bride was everything a maiden should be—young, demure, modest, pretty—and terrified. I was reminded of my friend Newandukh and the horror she endured after marrying an older man.

But surely Salaman's sweet humor and skillful hands would make him a gentle lover. Still, I'd heard stories about women whose husbands preferred a different mate and who took out their dissatisfaction on their innocent brides. My own brother Keshisha had not been at all tender with Yenuka's daughter Guria, now my sister-in-law as well as my niece, although by the time I heard the tale, things were different. And who knew how Abba treated Choran?

Stop thinking such carnal thoughts, I told myself severely. I'd only make myself more frustrated and miserable. To ensure that no erotic dreams interrupted my sleep, I studied Tractate Ohalot before I went to bed. Nothing like reviewing the laws concerning impurity of corpses to restrain my
yetzer hara
.

The year went from bad to worse. After General Galerius sacked Ctesiphon, King Narseh agreed to peace, but at a terrible price. Rome regained Armenia
and Upper Mesopotamia, along with some land east of the Tigris, making this the greatest eastern extension of Roman territory ever. In return Narseh's wife and children were restored to him.

One might think that life in Roman Palestina would be better now that the war was over and her soldiers returning. But not all her soldiers would return; Claudia's husband had died at the Battle of Satala and her fresh widow's grief reopened the wound I thought I had nearly healed. The weather was unseasonably warm and dry, so Jews who planted despite the prohibition were seeing little return for their efforts. Between that and the army consuming much of the foodstuffs set aside for the Sabbatical year, people began to whisper about the possibility of famine. I worried how my land was doing in Bavel, not that there was any way I could find out.

In a new and appalling turn, Diocletian increased his persecution of the Nazarenes. Convinced that Rome had defeated Persia because the gods approved his efforts to obliterate the heretics, he ordered churches razed, their holy books burned, and all bishops and priests imprisoned. Galerius went further and demanded that any Nazarene who refused to sacrifice to the gods be burned alive—men, women, and children.

I had just put Yehudit down to nap after the midday meal on First Day, and I was thinking how sweet she looked while sleeping, her dark curls framing her face and her thumb in her mouth. I was looking forward to relaxing after a busy morning inscribing amulets, when a woman in a red
palla
poked her head in and asked if Hisdadukh the amulet scribe was available.

“I'm sorry,” I replied. “Morning was the only propitious time for inscribing amulets today. I'm occupied tomorrow, and Third Day is inauspicious. Can you come back on Fifth Day?”

She stared at me so long I began to feel my scalp tingle. Then she abruptly left, muttering that Fifth Day was far too long to wait.

Yochani rushed in moments later. “There was a woman on the road outside, wearing a red
palla
and walking with a limp.” There was fear in her eyes as she asked me, “Was she here?”

“She just left. Why do you ask?”

“What did she want?” Her voice rose in alarm.

Yochani's anxiety made my throat constrict. “She asked me about amulets, but I told her it was too late for me to inscribe one today.”

Yochani sank down at the table and put her head in her hands. Then
she jumped up, her eyes wide with fright. “Start packing your things, we're leaving for Tiberias immediately.”

“That's impossible. Yehudit just went to sleep.”

“Wake her as soon as you're ready—we need to get there before dark.”

“What is the matter?” I demanded. “What are you afraid of?”

Yochani turned to face me. “That woman, the one with the limp who asked you about amulets, is Sepphoris's
kashafa
.” She began to pace the room. “I knew there'd be trouble if your amulets were too popular, and now that she knows who you are and where you live, it's come.”

“But she can't curse me,” I protested, trying to stay calm. “She doesn't know my mother's name.”