Apprentice

by Maggie Anton

  “I’ve decided to return to Sura as soon as possible.” He spoke softly to avoid being overheard.

  “Won’t the rabbis in Tiberias be disappointed if you leave without spending any time in their Beit Midrash?” As I spoke, I realized that my question was fueled by my own disappointment.

  “I won’t go immediately. I’ll teach Torah just long enough that Rabbis Assi and Ami won’t feel insulted,” he said. “Besides, I’ll need some time to arrange our journey home.”

  “It’s a shame what happened in Beit Shearim.” Surely his eagerness to depart was motivated by yesterday’s fiasco.

  “That’s not the reason I don’t want to stay any longer.” He shook his head sadly. “In truth, the students here are mediocre compared to those in Sura. My time is better spent there.”

  “Yochani told me how difficult life has been since her father’s time,” I said. “Prices double and triple what they used to be, with each new emperor raising taxes ever higher.”

  Father nodded. “Rabbi Assi complained that their best students have either emigrated to Bavel or become merchants in Syria, and Rabbi Ami criticized the people for preferring sermons from itinerant preachers to learning Mishna from the rabbis.”

  “What excuse will you give them for returning so soon?”

  “I don’t need to create an excuse. With Rav Huna’s death and my absence, Sura’s beit din has no leader and our students have no teacher.”

  “I would prefer to stay here with Yochani.” I tried to make it sound like both a statement and a question. “She has already invited me, while I don’t know anyone in Tiberias.”

  “As long as you return for Shabbat,” he said. “I may not know the date yet, but I intend for us to leave on a First Day.”

  I agreed, though it would mean bringing all my luggage to Tiberias each week.

  It was sometime later when I understood that it also meant I might be leaving Eretz Israel with merely a day’s notice.

  Living in Sepphoris was so different from Sura that there were times I almost felt happy. At a minimum, there were no regular reminders of Rami or Chama to sadden me. Yochani, far from being a lonely recluse, had a large circle of friends and a strict schedule of when she socialized with them. She was thrilled to show off her guest from the East with the exotic name and even more exotic clothing. Aware that Father could whisk me back to Bavel at any time, I was eager to experience everything this cosmopolitan Roman city had to offer.

  Yochani went out every day, taking me with her, of course. She bathed three mornings a week, each day at a different bathhouse. As leisurely as I’d found our excursion to the Tiberias bathhouse, I learned that she’d considered it rushed. Here bathing meant more than just cleansing your body in preparation for the day’s activities. There were friends with whom to share the latest news and gossip, gardens in which to relax, even healers to bleed you and dispense medicines. Those in business met their suppliers and customers, while city leaders discussed politics.

  I was amazed at how the bathhouses obtained their water, since there were no rivers or lakes nearby. Rather than coming from wells or canals, as in Bavel, water was piped into the city via long aqueducts. Ornate fountains, whimsically decorated with animal heads from which the water flowed, stood in nearly every square. Wealthy homes had water piped right into their own courtyards, but most people relied on slaves to carry water from the nearest square. Yochani had a cistern under her house that collected rainwater as well.

  Another shocking difference from Bavel were the many public privies, some so large that ten or more people could sit at one time. Often located near the bathhouses, these privies were built in such a way that wastewater ran beneath the seats, flushing the excrement away with it. Under the Romans, there were no Magi to object to polluting water in such a profane manner. Nobody here feared being attacked by demons in the privy, and almost no one had even heard of the Shayd shel BeitKisay. But I made it a point to wash my hands after using the privy anyway, since one can never be too cautious when it comes to demons.

  As in Tiberias, the main roads were nicely paved with stones and the sidewalks covered. But unlike the winding, haphazard alleys of Sura, the streets here were laid out in a grid, making it simple to find my way around. Not that traversing them was always easy. Shopkeepers displayed their wares outside, between the colonnades, and additional vendors rented booths on the sidewalks. Add to this peddlers selling directly from their carts in the roadway, plus porters and haulers trying to move their building materials and merchandise from one place to another, and I found that the direct route was not always the fastest.

  On the morning when Yochani first took me food shopping, I looked forward to discovering the local victuals. She told me proudly that farmers from all over Galilee sent their best produce to Sepphoris, and since Diocletian’s reign, foodstuffs were no longer in short supply. But other than certain fishes and olive oil, most items here were not only readily available in Sura but of lesser quality. I hid my disappointment, telling myself that the selection in winter would naturally be inferior.

  After three days of strangers gawking and pointing at my colorful tunic and trousers, I was determined to obtain clothes like other women here wore.

  “But your Persian outfit is lovely,” Yochani protested.

  I waited for her kitchen slave to set out our midday meal of fish, legumes, cabbage, and dried figs. As always, there was olive oil and fresh bread, over which Yochani said the blessing.

  Then I replied, “It’s designed for Bavel, where the weather is hot and dry nine months of the year.”

  Yochani dipped her bread in the olive oil and said, “What about the other three months?”

  “Warm and dry,” I replied with a smile.

  “I suppose there’s not much point in your wearing it if you have to cover it with a cloak all the time.” Yochani stopped to think. “Indeed, I have the perfect thing for you.”

  When we finished eating, she disappeared into her quarters and returned with an armful of red wool. “First you put on the haluk.” She handed me an undyed linen tunic that was buried under the wool. “Then the stola and palla.”

  I fingered the haluk’s material, a heavier weave than the linen our family produced, yet neither rough nor coarse against my skin. The long, red woolen stola was pleated, with elbow-length sleeves. Under Yochani’s direction, Leuton corrected the length by folding the excess over belts fastened at my waist and under my breasts. I was relieved to find that the neckline could be adjusted to accommodate a nursing mother.

  “How do you wear the palla?” I asked. It seemed to be merely a length of material, yet women here somehow wrapped it around themselves so it didn’t fall off.

  “Watch carefully.” Yochani removed hers and slowly pulled it around her waist, over her shoulder from behind, then tucked it under her arm before finally covering her head.

  I immediately regretted my decision to trade my simple tunic and trousers for this complicated attire. “But how can a woman carry anything if she needs to use one hand to keep her palla from coming off?”

  Yochani laughed. “That’s what maidservants are for.” Then her expression sobered. “Wearing a stola and palla announces a woman’s superior status to everyone who sees her, since she couldn’t wear it unless she had slaves to assist her.”

  “Not all women wear the end draped over their heads.”

  “Some married women prefer woven hairnets like yours.” She appraised me carefully. “Most young widows, like virgins, leave their hair uncovered.”

  “I’m not looking for a husband,” I said firmly. “I’ll keep my hair covered.”

  Yochani held out the palla. “You can start wearing these now.” She grinned at my dubious expression. “Next week you’ll be getting dressed without even thinking about it.”

  Though midday, it was still chilly enough that I undressed by the hearth. Leuton was trying to decide which side was the front of the haluk, when the front door burst open. She qui
ckly yanked the haluk over my head and down to cover my torso. When it was finally down far enough that I could see, I looked up to find a young man wearing Yochani’s face staring at me in admiration. He averted his gaze the moment our eyes met, and I could feel my face burning.

  “Simeon, what a surprise.” Yochani’s voice conveyed both delight and annoyance. “I didn’t expect you until Pesach.”

  “I arrived at Akko a bit early for the fair, so I decided to come see you for Shabbat,” he replied. “I didn’t know you would have company.”

  “Hisdadukh,” she gestured toward me, “this is my son Simeon. He is a merchant in Tyre.”

  Simeon, blushing behind his beard, nodded in my direction as his mother continued: “Now mind your manners. Hisdadukh’s father is a great scholar, head of the beit din in Sura, who is at this moment teaching Torah in Tiberias.”

  Simeon looked at me questioningly, and then suddenly his face lit up. “Hisdadukh bat Rav Hisda. Do you have a brother named Tachlifa?”

  I was so surprised, plus still embarrassed, that at first I could only nod. “How do you know him?” I finally asked.

  “I’ve done business with Tachlifa on occasion and never regretted it,” he said. “Indeed, I’m looking forward to trading with him in Akko. I find that scholars are more trustworthy than the average merchant.”

  Yochani pulled up another bench. “Sit down and have something to eat,” she told her son. “Lucky for you I keep a full table. In the meantime, I’m teaching Hisdadukh how to dress like she’s always lived in Galilee.”

  I recalled that Tyre was famous for its dye works. “Simeon, you wouldn’t happen to have some red silk thread?”

  “I do, and several other colors too.” He looked at me with new interest. “Why do you ask?”

  “I weave red ribbons for amulets.” I picked up my small loom and began working it.

  “Too bad you don’t write amulets as well,” Simeon said with a sigh. “My children were both ill this winter and I’m not sure their old amulets are still effective.”

  “But I do write amulets—to protect travelers, children, and pregnant women.” I saw no reason to hide my skill. “I even qualify as an expert scribe so Jews may wear my amulets on Shabbat.”

  “I will gladly trade you all the red silk thread you want if you’ll make amulets for my children.”

  “I’ll also inscribe a traveler’s amulet for you,” I replied, confident that I could obtain papyrus. But I wasn’t quite so confident that my incantations would be as powerful as before. “You’ll need to find a metal- or leatherworker to make their holders though.”

  “That won’t be difficult,” Yochani said. “My tenant works with leather and is bound to have some scraps you can use.”

  Thus I inscribed my first amulets since Rami’s death, not in Sura, but in Eretz Israel. After Simeon’s, I wrote another for Yehudit, reveling in the angelic power flowing through me to protect my daughter. The inhabitants of Sepphoris might not fear the Shayd shel BeitKisay, but most wore amulets around their necks. That meant there were other, perhaps more dangerous, demons and evil spirits here.

  Tiberias had thirteen synagogues, none with a Babylonian congregation, so I was forced to visit four of them before I found my father praying with Rabbis Assi and Ami. I was thankful not to be wearing my Persian outfit, so I could duck in and out without arousing any attention.

  Father raised an eyebrow when he saw me wearing Roman clothes, but then he shrugged. “Enjoy your new clothes while you can. We’re leaving for Bavel in ten days.”

  Though I was expecting this announcement, I still felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach. And when I told Yochani later, at Eliezer’s house, she looked as if she was going to cry.

  Simeon must have noticed our distress because he asked me, “Must you return with your father, Hisdadukh? Why don’t you stay a while longer and go back with Tachlifa?”

  Yochani immediately brightened. “Surely Rav Hisda can make it home without you. I’d so enjoy it if you stayed.”

  The way my heart leapt at Simeon’s suggestion, there was no doubt what I wanted to do. But how could I abandon Father after Mother had asked me to care for him on the journey? True, Father hadn’t needed me during the trip to the West, and he would still have Rabbah bar Huna and Timonus for company if I remained here.

  “How can you be sure that you’ll be able to find my brother in time?” I demanded of Simeon. “I must return for Pesach.”

  “Tachlifa has agreed to meet me at the fair in Akko,” Simeon said. “So unless some accident befalls him, I am certain he will be there.”

  “Akko is about the same distance from Sepphoris as Tiberias is, and during fair season there is constant traffic between them,” Yochani informed me. “Simeon can easily send you a message from your brother once they’ve found each other.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Tachlifa may have intended to come to the Akko fair and then return to Sura by Pesach, but what if something happened to delay him? Hadn’t he recently stayed in Antioch well past the festival? There was also the matter of obtaining Father’s consent. True, I was no longer a child who needed a parent’s permission, but one travel companion does not forsake another without it.

  I hesitated for so long that Simeon declared, “If for some reason I cannot find your brother or he cannot accompany you back to Bavel, then I will do it myself.”

  “Very well, I will speak to Father when Shabbat is over.” If my request were going to spark an argument, better it should be after the Day of Rest.

  TWENTY-THREE

  To my surprise, Father was quite willing for me to remain in Eretz Israel. “Your Mother and I discussed the possibility and agreed that you should stay as long as you like.”

  “You did?” I couldn’t believe they had planned this in advance.

  “You were too unhappy in Sura. You needed a change.”

  “You were right,” I admitted reluctantly. “This trip has been good for me.”

  Father smiled wanly and patted my cheek. “If you don’t want to return with Tachlifa, we’ll miss you but we won’t prevent you. After all, it is a mitzvah to live in Eretz Israel.”

  “What about Yehudit? I thought she belonged to Ukva.” Certainly Achti had thought so.

  He shook his head vehemently. “A Mishna in Tractate Ketubot teaches that a daughter’s place is with her mother, even after she’s weaned. And should the mother desire to remarry, she can have her new husband stipulate in the marriage contract that he will support the girl until she’s grown.”

  My heart soared to hear that I would never have to relinquish Yehudit, and then crashed at the thought of Chama, so far away. “And a son?” I asked. Had I given Chama up unnecessarily? If so, was it too late to get him back?

  “A boy is different, particularly if he is the only male descendant in the father’s family,” he replied.

  I sighed with resignation. “Don’t worry. We’ll be home to celebrate Pesach.” As meritorious as it was for a Jew to live in the West, I couldn’t imagine never seeing Chama again.

  All my concerns about Tachlifa were unnecessary. Simeon found my brother so quickly that they both came to Tiberias the following Shabbat, where Tachlifa was able to reassure Father in person that he would see me safely home for Pesach.

  The next two months passed so swiftly that before I knew it people in Sepphoris were talking about preparing for Purim. Yehudit could sit without aid, although if she fell over, she could not push herself back up. Thank Heaven she wasn’t mobile yet. Now that she was truly mine, I was not willing to trust anyone, not even Nurse, with a baby who didn’t stay where she was placed. Not after what happened with Chama.

  As winter drew to a close, Galilee burst into bloom with a riot of wildflowers, and again I marveled at how different from Sura it was here. Despite Yochani’s warning, it never snowed in Sepphoris, but I saw plenty of the white substance, the source of the region’s water, on the distant mountaintops.

  Fi
nally the day came when, Yehudit and I atop one donkey and Nurse, Leuton, and our belongings on two others, we followed Tachlifa down the road to Akko. The night before, Yochani had insisted I should come visit her whenever I liked, that her door was always open to me. When we hugged and said our good-byes the next morning, there were tears in our eyes.

  We were approaching a bend in the road when Tachlifa held up his hand to stop us. “Close your eyes.”

  Trusting my brother, I did what he said. The donkeys kept going without my direction, and a short time later Tachlifa called out that we could open our eyes now.

  “Ha-Elohim!” I whispered in awe. I’d thought the Sea of Tiberias was large, but this expanse of water had no end.

  “It’s called the Great Sea,” he said. “If you board a boat sailing south, you can go to Alexandria in Egypt. If your boat sails north, as ours will do, you can go to Tyre, Antioch, and eventually to Greece and Rome.”

  I wavered between fear and fascination. “You didn’t say we’d be taking a boat.”

  “It’s the fastest way to travel with merchandise.”

  “I thought there were storms at sea in the winter.”

  “We’ll be staying close to land,” he assured me. “We can always head to the nearest port in the unlikely event of a storm so late in the season.”

  “Will we be going to Antioch?” Then I might see for myself if the tales about this scandalous Roman city were true.

  Tachlifa nodded. “Samuel will meet us there with the rest of our goods,” he said. “Other merchants from Bavel will join our caravan, and then it’s only a short camel ride to the Euphrates, which will swiftly carry us home to Sura.”

  I remembered little of our voyage, other than gray skies, choppy seas, and continual nausea. Not that I ever vomited; I just always felt as if I would. Nurse forced me to take nourishment for Yehudit’s sake, but otherwise I lay in my bunk, too ill to stand, wishing there was a spell against seasickness. Tachlifa urged me to come up on deck because the fresh air would do me good, but the only time I followed his advice was during the few hours we spent in port.