Premonition

by R. S. Ingermanson

  Hanan strode up to a workman. “Who ordered this?”

  Fear hooded the man’s eyes. “I do not know who ordered it.” He pointed to a short, thin man with a gray beard. “Yosi hired me.”

  Yosi was a building contractor who built many houses in the New City and oversaw much of the construction and repairs in the Temple.

  Hanan snapped his fingers.

  Yosi came at once, smiling. “It is clever, do you agree? The water will flow down through many pipes to the lavers at which the priests wash their hands and feet. Your priests will no longer need to carry water.”

  “How do you intend to fill it, fool? The water will not lift itself into the tank.”

  Yosi smiled. “That is the clever part. I have designed a new type of pump which requires little effort. Two men can fill the tank in a short time, enough for a whole day of—”

  “You designed it?” Hanan scowled. Yosi was skilled in managing workers, but he had no knowledge of pumps or other machines. Hanan found the matter of the pump fascinating, but such devices required more effort than they saved. The Temple required vast amounts of water, and a pump would be most useful if it could be made to work. But Hanan knew it could not. Better to order the common priests to carry water.

  Yosi nodded happily. “I have the design here.” He pulled out a thin sheet of—

  Hanan snatched the papyrus from Yosi’s hand. “Kazan! You received this from the hand of Kazan!”

  “He is a talented architect,” Yosi said. “He solved a difficult problem for me in the design of a house. I saved four hundred dinars in labor costs, and paid him fifty. An excellent bargain, do you agree?”

  “You will not employ him anymore.”

  Yosi blinked twice. “He is much in demand from the other builders. If I do not employ him, others will.”

  “You will not employ him anymore.”

  “Of course,” Yosi said without conviction.

  Hanan saw that Yosi would continue to hire Kazan. He would not even bother to hide it. Hanan tugged at a corner of his beard, furious. Kazan was causing him to lose honor.

  “The pump is very ingenious,” Yosi said. “It turns a screw inside a cylinder set on a slant to elevate the water.”

  Hanan wanted to tell Yosi to say no more on the matter of the pump. But he also wanted to know how the pump worked. “How is it turned?”

  Yosi showed him the diagram. Kazan had designed two vertical treadwheels, one on each side of the sloping screw. Men walked inside the treadwheels, causing them to turn.

  Hanan shook his head. “This is not new. I have seen many such treadwheels. But they have a horizontal axle. This screw rises along a diagonal. How do the treadwheels connect to the screw?”

  “Kazan calls the device a gear train.” Yosi pointed to a strange-looking diagram. “This horizontal axle turns this gear, which meshes with another at an angle, which turns the screw.”

  “At an angle?” Hanan knew this could not possibly work. “This is foolishness.”

  “Kazan says they build many such gear trains in his country.”

  Hanan stared at the finely inked lines on the magical papyrus. The design surprised him. He had seen gears before, using wooden pins for teeth, but such devices broke easily. These teeth were thicker, differently oriented, and they meshed much more smoothly. This was either great foolishness, or ... extraordinarily clever. “How are the gears to be constructed?”

  “I have employed a skilled bronze worker. Ari the Kazan says the gears must be made of bronze.”

  Hanan shook his head. “It is impossible. Such a device cannot function. The gears will not turn when mated together. You will cancel the contract.”

  “But it is completed, except for sealing the water tank and assembling the gear train.”

  “You will cancel it, or else the Temple will find other builders.”

  Yosi shook his head. “The other builders would also hire Ari the Kazan and then I would have lost him, to no gain. Therefore I will not cancel the contract. I will allow no man to say that Yosi the Builder does not complete what he has contracted. Also, I wish to see if the gear train will work.”

  Hanan glared at him. You wish to learn the secrets of the gear train at the expense of the Temple treasury. “I will cancel the remainder of the contract. You will not be paid another dinar for this work.”

  Yosi smiled. “Then I will finish the project at my own expense. I have already received three parts of the money from the Temple treasury, so I lose only my own profit. If the gear train works ...” He shrugged eloquently.

  Then Kazan will have made you the owner of something new in the world. Hanan turned on his heel and stalked away. This magician Kazan had stolen the hearts and hands of his contractors. It was time to find out more about him—where he lived, what manner of man he was.

  And whether he had a family.

  Rivka

  * * *

  Rivka wasn’t feeling right this morning, and she had a scary hunch why.

  Midwife Marta strode briskly beside her. “Please, you will keep up, Rivkaleh. The woman’s waters have broken and her husband is frantic. Of course, a husband is always frantic, but still I am concerned.”

  Rivka smiled and tried to walk faster. Marta was always concerned. The woman in question was seventeen years old, and therefore a bit old for her first pregnancy. She had been married three years, and only gotten pregnant now? She must be less fertile than most. Therefore the husband was concerned. Likewise Marta.

  A queasiness deep inside forced Rivka to stop. She leaned against the wall of a beautifully constructed stone house and closed her eyes. Think about something pleasant.

  Marta stopped and came back. “Rivkaleh, are you well?”

  Rivka opened her eyes slowly. “Savta, I’m ... late.” Rivka felt a rush of fear. Ari was going to be furious when he found out. She had been desperately hoping for the last three weeks that she was wrong, but there was no denying what she was feeling now.

  “Ari the Kazan will be much honored. He must have been very concerned.”

  Rivka didn’t want to even think about telling Ari. They had agreed not to get pregnant. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears. This ought to be the most exciting thing in the world. Now panic crushed in on her whenever she thought about what a horrible world this would be for a baby.

  Marta shook her head and muttered something.

  “I’m sorry?” Rivka said.

  “I meant no offense, child, but ... you must be almost twenty already.”

  “Close,” Rivka said. Women aged rapidly here. Marta would faint if she knew Rivka was twenty-six, and that it was common to be unmarried at that age in her far country.

  Marta clucked her tongue. “I feared you were barren. I have been praying much to HaShem for you.”

  “Thank you, Savta.” Rivka took a deep breath. If Marta knew what was coming in the next decade, she might pray for all women to be barren. “I think I can walk. We must hurry.”

  “We will not hurry.” Marta set an easy pace. “You will be the mother of many sons in Yisrael.”

  When they reached the house, the husband was pacing outside in the street, wringing his hands and frowning. Rivka had never met him, but she knew from his wife that his name was Mattityahu, that he was a Torah student of Rabbi Tsadduk, that his trade was leather-crafts, and that he had inherited many dinars when his father died. Rivka sized him up quickly. A nervous young man in his early twenties, with a crooked nose, nervous eyes, the standard-issue untrimmed black beard, and already a bald alley under his tefillin.

  Mattityahu rushed up to them. “My woman is having many pains already. Why have you not hurried?”

  “Take us to the birthing room,” Marta said in the brusque tone she reserved for flighty husbands who would faint if they knew how much blood was about to spill.

  Mattityahu led them to the back of the house into a small room. Marta went in and knelt down beside the bed. “Miryam, how are you feeling?”


  Miryam turned to her, eyes wide and fearful. “Blessed be HaShem, you have come. My waters have broken.”

  Marta snapped her fingers. “Mattityahu, you may go. Rivkaleh, you will examine her.”

  Rivka poured water over her hands and scrubbed them in vinegar. Not the best disinfectant, but she hadn’t seen an infection yet in her patients, and that was uncommon. She knelt and reached up underneath the linen tunic. Two months ago when Rivka began her training, Marta would not have dreamed of letting her perform a pelvic examination. Now, she insisted on it. Rivka’s small hands were less intrusive than Marta’s thick mitts. Rivka probed inside Miryam’s birth canal. “She is dilated almost three fingers.”

  Marta patted Miryam’s forehead. “Rest, child. Your waters broke early, and you still have some hours.”

  A rush of ... something seemed to fill up the inside of Rivka’s head. She gasped and bent over.

  “Rivkaleh?” Marta sounded both tender and businesslike. “Are you feeling nauseous?”

  Rivka nodded. She closed her eyes and tried to think of home.

  Marta’s footsteps retreated out of the room. Rivka heard her shouting something at the husband of the house. The queasiness in her stomach grew and grew. Footsteps again. “Child, use this basin if you need it.” A cracked flat vessel of red clay appeared in front of Rivka.

  She wobbled to her feet and clutched it. “Thank you, Savta. But I don’t think I—” Rivka spent the next five minutes proving herself wrong.

  Marta handed her a stone cup of beer. “Rinse out your mouth with this. And perhaps a breath of fresh air outside.”

  Rivka swished and spit. “How is Miryam?”

  “Go outside. Breathe some air. I will call when I need you.”

  The husband gave her an anxious look when she went out, but Rivka shook her head. “Your woman has still some hours.”

  Your woman. Now I’m thinking like them. The language had one word, ishah, for both wife and woman. Until now, Rivka had always kept them separate in her mind. But the lines were blurring. Memories of San Diego were dimming. Walking in public without a horrible head-covering over her long silky black hair. Talking to guys and being treated like an equal—mostly. Wearing T-shirts and cutoffs at Horton Plaza. Bikinis on the beach at La Jolla Shores. It was another universe.

  Rivka pushed outside. Just don’t think about it, girl. You are not part of that world anymore. You can’t go back to the future. The only future you have is the one you’re entering second by second.

  She took a cautious breath of fresh air. It was chilly today. Chilly and bright. The street was quiet. A woman walking with a shopping basket. A few children playing chase in the street. An oxcart hauling wood to the wood-market. A man loitering against a wall a few houses down. A beautiful—

  Rivka felt a rush of fear. A man loitering against a wall? Not normal. Suspicious, she began walking toward him.

  The man pushed off from the wall and strode away from her.

  But not before Rivka got a good look at his face. She had seen this man before. Two days ago, while walking with Marta. And possibly last week, though she hadn’t got a clear look then. Rivka never, ever forgot a face. This man had an ordinary face, one like a thousand others. Yet she knew perfectly well that she could pick him out of that thousand.

  This man was following her. Why?

  She had been stalked before. A romance in Berkeley that went sour. She had been forced to go to the cops, get a restraining order, the works. She had even applied for a permit to carry a gun, had forced herself to take a course in firearms, even though she hated the things. Then her father offered her the money to go work on an archaeological dig for the summer in Israel. Which was how she got here.

  Now it was happening again. Only this time, she was carrying a passenger.

  Rivka put her hands on her hips and glared up the street at the retreating man. You better run, buddy. You better be scared. Nobody messes with Rivka Meyers Kazan when she’s got a baby on board.

  Chapter Nine

  Ari

  * * *

  ARI PUSHED HIS WAY UP the crowded market street with half the Sons of Righteous Priests behind him. Today he felt nervous. And proud. They had worked hard on the gear train, but it was something new, and therefore it required testing. Today, it looked like the whole city would be watching this final test.

  The teeth of the gears meshed smoothly in the shop of Levi the bronze worker. But would they mesh well when installed? The Temple had cancelled the contract, shorting Yosi the Builder. If the device failed, Yosi would be angry and Ari would lose honor.

  Lose honor. He was concerned now with honor?

  Gamaliel slipped up alongside Ari in the noisy crowd. “Ari the Kazan, you should know something.”

  Ari peered down at his friend. “What should I know?”

  “Hanan ben Hanan has been asking questions about you.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  Gamaliel looked all around them, his eyes alert. “Questions. His men are following you and your woman. This is all that I know. I heard it from a friend. You will be careful, please.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  They turned east and walked up the steps at the southern edge of the Temple Mount. Ari looked back.

  Levi the bronze worker grunted under his load—one of the five gears in the gear train. Eleazar carried one in each massive arm. Two other Sons of Righteous Priests carried one gear apiece. Ari would have carried one, but the men would not allow it. Ari the Kazan, entrusted by HaShem with the secrets of the gear train, must do no menial work. Whereas the men who did work in his service gained honor by serving him. The whole system was twice crazy. He should put an end to it. But he might as easily turn off the sun.

  Earlier today, the men had performed the ritual washing for entry onto the Temple Mount. They bypassed the public baths and went in through the twin Huldah Gates—the first level of purity of the Temple. Up a couple of hundred steps and out into the clean winter sunshine.

  Fear gnawed at Ari. He could not afford to fail.

  They continued toward a waist-high barrier wall. A sign on the gate informed them in Aramaic, Greek, and Latin of the death that would face any Gentile who entered. Ari could not read the Greek and Latin, but Rivka could. This was the second level of purity.

  They ascended a series of steps to the gates of the inner Temple and walked into the Court of Women, the third level of purity. It was now nearly noon, midway between morning and afternoon sacrifices. A good time for installing the gears, when few worshipers clogged the courts. They turned left and walked across the vast court to the semicircular steps—fifteen broad stairs where the Levite musicians sang during the hour of sacrifice. During the worship hour, a man could feel an awe descend on him, surround him, wash him. Ari had experienced it many times. He did not feel it now. Dread wrapped its cold fist around his heart.

  They walked up the steps and through the gleaming Corinthian bronze gates into the fourth level of purity. This was the Court of Yisrael, where any Jewish man could come if he brought a sacrifice. It was forbidden to women. Ari had been here twice for consultations on the pump. Then he had felt this same strange sense of quiet or solitude or ... peacefulness.

  The men around him had grown quiet, reverent.

  Ari hesitated. They now stood facing west before the great altar. Behind it towered the golden facade of the Temple itself, on the same site where someday a mosque with a golden roof would stand. Ari knew only one word to describe this place.

  Kadosh.

  Holy.

  Separated from the world of men and chatter. This was the Temple of the living God, and whether you believed HaShem was a manlike being with head and hands and heart, or whether you considered him the primordial First Cause, you could not miss that something of substance—something heavy—dwelled here.

  Today, Ari felt a holy terror. He had heard rumors that Hanan ben Hanan would find a way to stop this project. Would crush
Kazan. Destroy his honor. Ari fought the urge to turn and run. Craziness, to fight Hanan on his own turf.

  Eleazar nudged him. “Ari the Kazan, we must install the device.”

  “Of course.” Ari kicked off his sandals—one did not wear shoes beyond this point—and ascended yet a few more steps into the fifth level of purity, the Court of Priests. Only priests were admitted here, but any priest could enter, even an issah priest like Ari. He walked past the altar to the pump.

  Ari pushed aside his fears. If he had miscalculated, Hanan would win. So be it. He could not turn back now. He would use the mind HaShem had given him and he would fight Hanan.

  Before him lay a tank the size of one of those small swimming pools so common in America. An aqueduct fed the tank with a steady stream. A line of sweating priests waited at the pool, dipping bronze buckets and carrying them to a dozen destinations.

  The pump looked much like a huge screw inside a giant drinking straw. The straw was set at an angle, rising from the lower tank to the upper. Turning the screw drew water up the trough. It was ingenious, and of course not Ari’s invention. The Greeks had been building these for centuries.

  The central problem, unsolved by the Greeks, was efficient energy transfer. The axis of the screw pointed upward at an angle of thirty degrees. How to transfer the energy of the treadwheel into rotational motion at such an inconvenient angle? Of course this required gears. But the problem had resisted the cleverest Greeks for centuries because their gears were of inferior design—pins attached to wheels, and set parallel to the axle. Such gears could transmit rotational energy through a right angle, but not one of thirty degrees.

  Any modern child would know to thicken the pins and shape them into true teeth and point them radially outward. But this was three innovations at once, a difficult step. The Greeks had not yet solved the problem.