Apprentice

by Maggie Anton

  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 t
housands 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.”

  So I continued: “Our Law, the Torah, was given to us by our prophet Moses, while their law, the Avesta, was given to them by their prophet Zoroaster. We have both a Written and Oral Torah, but their Avesta is only oral and must be memorized by the Magi—their priests, scholars, and judges.”

  “They have priests, scholars, and judges too?” Yochani asked in amazement. “I thought they were all warriors.”

  When I nodded, Rabbi Avahu asked, “How does a Persian become a scholar or judge?”

  “Like us, priesthood passes from father to son. But while any Jewish boy who excels at his studies can become a rabbi, in Persia only Magi are trained as scholars and judges.” My face clouded as I continued, “As our priests did when the Temple stood, theirs also make sacrifices on their festivals and purify the people who become impure.”

  As I expected, a sad silence descended as we recalled the Temple sacrifices and priestly functions that were no more.

  Rabbi Avahu was the first to speak. “How do their people become impure? And what do the priests do to purify them?”

  Thanks to Zahra, at least I knew how to answer his first question. “Part of fighting evil is keeping the seven creations from becoming polluted with the impurity of death,” I said. “However, Persians have two types of dead matter, corpses and excrement, the latter being anything that issues from a person’s body—blood, cut nails and hair, saliva, urine, feces, semen, and even breath. All these are immediately seized and polluted by Nasus, the Corpse Demoness.”

  Judging by their rapt expressions, my audience found this fascinating. “Anyone thus polluted must be ritually purified and Nasus driven away.” I took a deep breath before continuing, for this next part would certainly sound strange to them. “In addition, Mazda’s seven holy creations must be protected from Nasus, which means that dead bodies cannot be buried in the ground, meat cannot be roasted in a fire but must be cooked in a vessel, chamber pots cannot be emptied into streams, and a niddah pollutes even the air she gazes at.”

  Their questions came all at once. “How do they dispose of dead bodies? What kind of privies do they have, and what do people do when there are no privies close by? How does a niddah manage her household? What about breast milk? How do they procreate if semen pollutes?”

  And this from Rabbi Avahu, “How do they become purified from Nasus if they can’t use water or fire?”

  I answered the rabbi’s question first, because it was the easiest. “I don’t know the details of their purity rituals, only that they involve washing with bull urine and can take several days.” I held up my hands and added, “Now, don’t ask how they get the bull urine.”

  As I expected, they looked at me incredulously. Then Susanna began to titter, followed by Yochani giggling, until we were all laughing uproariously, even Yehudit. Eventually Rabbi Avahu calmed us by admonishing that death was a serious matter.

  I returned to answering their questions. “Breast milk and semen do not pollute when they go directly from one person’s body into another’s. But Persians consider it a terrible sin for a man to emit semen anywhere except into a woman’s womb.”

  Rabbi Avahu nodded in approval. “As do we.”

  “A niddah does not manage her household,” I said. “For nine days, whether she’s still bleeding or not, she stays alone in a windowless hut and has food brought to her.”

  Yochani and Susanna looked at each other in horror. “And I thought our laws were strict,” Susanna said with a shudder.

  “Persian privies are lined with stone, which is not subject to pollution,” I explained. “And if someone is out in the fields, he finds some rocks on which to relieve himself. In truth, everyone cleans themselves with round stones or pottery shards, even Jews, never with running water like you do here.”

  “I remember hearing that the Persians expose their dead,” Rabbi Avahu said. “And bury only the bones.”

  “It’s true.” I shivered in disgust. “Persians leave the bodies on stone towers until birds and wild animals eat the flesh; then they bury the bones or seal them in stone sarcophagi.”

  That gruesome scene was too much for my audience to imagine. When Yochani asked Susanna where we would be staying and how much farther it was until we got there, I understood that they’d heard enough about Persians.

  After breaking our fast and saying our morning prayers in Jaffa, where we’d spent the night at the home of a wealthy ship owner, Susanna couldn’t wait to go to the bathhouse.

  “I’m sure this is nothing to yo
u, Hisdadukh,” she said. “But to go ten days without bathing or anointing seems like an eternity for me.”

  Yochani rubbed her hands in anticipation. “Indeed. Susanna is taking us to a special place, a bathhouse right on the sea. There are both saltwater and freshwater pools, plus a private beach where we can bathe in the sea itself.”

  “To give us the maximum amount of time there, our host has arranged to deliver the midday meal to the bathhouse.” Susanna sighed with anticipation. “After we eat, I think I’ll have my blood let, since it’s been well over thirty days.”

  “No, you mustn’t. It’s too dangerous,” I warned her. “Shmuel taught that only First, Fourth, and Sixth Days are safe for bloodletting, and he was an expert on the stars and their influences.”

  “Did he explain why the other days aren’t?” Yochani asked.

  “The Third because Mars is sovereign then,” I said. “And the other two because the Heavenly Court convenes on those days, just as earthly courts do, and you don’t want to be judged while undergoing a risky procedure.”

  Susanna shrugged. “I guess you Chaldeans know best about these things.”

  I was not offended by her using the name Chaldean, although I wasn’t sure if she meant me or Shmuel. At home only astrologers were called Chaldeans, but people in the West called someone a Chaldean if he came from Bavel and knew anything about sorcery, healing, or the stars.

  The Jaffa bathhouse was as nice as Susanna described. I particularly enjoyed swimming in the sea, whose cool water was wonderfully refreshing after the heat and stink of Jerusalem. She and Yochani were surprised that I knew how to swim, something only boys were taught in the West. But when I explained that Jews in Bavel usually immersed in rivers and canals, they agreed that this skill could also be lifesaving for girls.

  After another night in Jaffa, we left early for Caesarea. The sea breezes kept the carriage cool, and while my companions probably found the unchanging view boring, I was entranced by the endless blue expanse of water. Susanna and Yochani occupied themselves with an enthusiastic discussion of the banquet Susanna was planning for Tu B’Av, four days hence.