Apprentice

by Maggie Anton

  A bald elderly man entered and gruffly addressed Salaman. “You say you need a new bathhouse amulet. What’s wrong with your old one?”

  I was astonished by the scribe’s behavior. First, that he remembered Salaman and his previous purchase, and second, that he was dissuading a sale instead of encouraging it. Maybe his curtness came from being a man in a woman’s business.

  Salaman was nonplussed. “I have been advised that my current amulet has weakened after protecting me when the bathhouse floor collapsed.”

  The man looked at Salaman with new respect. “Your adviser is correct. And if I needed any more business, I’d ask you to tell your friends how my amulet saved you.”

  “I’d like a bathhouse amulet too,” I said. “I’ve never had one before.”

  “Judging by your accent, that’s because you come from Bavel, where they don’t have many bathhouses.”

  “If we give you our names now, how soon will they be ready?” Salaman asked.

  I held my breath waiting for the answer. I’d been impressed by the scribe’s sharpness a moment earlier, but today was not auspicious for inscribing amulets. Though his bathhouse amulet seemed to be effective, I’d be skeptical of anyone who’d prepare one this day.

  “I don’t write amulets on Third Day,” he objected. “It’s ruled by the planet Mars. Tomorrow morning I’ll be busy with yesterday’s orders, but I suppose I should have yours done by midday the day after that.”

  “My name is Salaman bar Appia and…” He turned to me.

  “Hisdadukh bat Haviva,” I said.

  The scribe squinted at me for a moment, and then pulled out several of the small boxes. “Pick any case you want. There’s brass, tin, lead, silver, wood, and leather to choose from.”

  Salaman chose brass, and I took leather. There was no reason for an expensive case when I was only interested in seeing what the amulet said.

  Next the scribe reluctantly set down a large basket, which was nearly empty except for a few frayed red woolen cords. “I’m sorry, but that’s all I have right now.”

  “We don’t need any.” I displayed the silk ribbons curled up in my purse.

  “Where did you get those?” he demanded excitedly. “How much did they cost?”

  “They didn’t cost me anything,” I said. “My brother is a silk merchant, and I wove them myself.”

  He eyed me shrewdly. “How many ribbons will you trade me in exchange for inscribing your amulets?”

  Before I could answer, Salaman interrupted. “We can’t bargain with you until we know what similar red ribbons sell for in the souk.”

  “I don’t think you’ll see many, but you’re welcome to try,” he said. “We can discuss this further on Fifth Day afternoon.”

  Susanna had never seen ribbons like mine for sale in Caesarea, but she could tell me what the best red woolen strings cost. I knew what silk ribbons sold for in Sura, and eventually, by comparing prices of other goods common in both cities, we decided on a minimum amount for me to ask.

  We gave the scribe plenty of time to prepare our amulets after his midday meal on Fifth Day. This time the courtyard gate opened promptly when Salaman knocked, and the scribe was waiting in his workroom for us.

  He handed Salaman a small brass case, but to me he held out the papyrus alone. “You don’t have to buy a leather case if you intend to put the papyrus in a gold one,” he said. “Besides, leather is a poor choice for a bathhouse amulet.”

  He seemed to be challenging me to read what he’d written.

  As I did, I smiled. The tiny letters were clear and well written, but what cheered me was the incantation’s similarity to a Baraita Father had taught when discussing prayers to say in dangerous places, such as bathhouses. Despite the warm weather, a chill ran down my spine when I got to the final word.

  The incantation read, “May it be Your will, Adonai Elohim, that You cause Hisdadukh bat Haviva to enter in peace and to depart in peace and to return in peace. And may there not happen to her a disaster, that You save Hisdadukh bat Haviva from this fire and heat and drowning and from the like, now and in the future. Amen. Amen. Selah.”

  “I take it you approve,” the scribe said.

  “I have heard its like before,” I admitted. “At what hour today did you write them?”

  He locked eyes with me. “The fourth, of course.”

  Salaman looked at us in confusion. “What on earth are you two talking about?”

  “The fourth hour on Fifth Day is one of the most propitious times of the week for inscribing amulets,” I explained.

  “So you are the Chaldean woman, newly arrived in Sepphoris, who now writes amulets there,” the scribe charged.

  As there was no reason to deny it, I nodded. “I am not trying to cheat you or compete with you, but I want to learn more amulet incantations to use when I return to Bavel.”

  “I will be happy to share my knowledge…” He paused and gazed longingly at my purse. “In return for a sufficient supply of your red silk ribbons.”

  “Gladly.” I agreed without hesitation, tantalized by the promise of new spells. Yochani’s son Simeon would bring me all the red silk thread I wanted from Tyre.

  “Hisdadukh, stop,” Salaman exclaimed. “You don’t know how many incantations he’ll have or even if they’re any good.”

  The scribe frowned. “I’m not the one who needs help. If she doesn’t appreciate my information, she doesn’t have to pay.”

  “Salaman, when you buy an amulet from this man, you trust him with your life,” I said. “He’s undeniably an expert, and where else in the West will I learn what he can teach me?” Neither man needed to know that money was no object for me, that I would pay any price for more amulet spells.

  “Very well,” he conceded.

  I took a deep breath and faced the scribe. “So what kind of incantations do you write?”

  TWENTY-NINE

  I wavered between hope and trepidation as I awaited his answer.

  “I have amulets for protection from demons, pirates, highwaymen, miscarriage, and the Evil Eye.” The scribe leaned back in his chair and counted them off on his fingers. “Plus to cure fever, epilepsy, and toothache.”

  My eyes widened at the extent of his expertise. “I’ll take them all.” I especially wanted the miscarriage spell for Achti.

  “I’m not done.” He scowled at my impatience. “If a demon’s name is known, I can inscribe an amulet to exorcise it, and if you have a specific enemy, I can write one to suppress him.” He stopped to smile. “I even have an amulet for winning at chariot races. It’s quite popular.”

  “I don’t think I’ll need that last one,” I said. “We don’t have chariot races in Bavel, and I only expect to be here through the fall.”

  “I’ll buy one though,” Salaman said enthusiastically.

  “Your chariot race amulet won’t be ready until the twenty-fifth,” the scribe told Salaman. “But the others are generic, and I can write them on the first day after Pesach.”

  “Can’t you write it for me now?” Salaman leaned forward and grinned conspiratorially. “I was hoping to attend some chariot races during Chol haMoed.”

  The scribe sighed in acquiescence, and I placed a handful of ribbons on the table. “Will this be sufficient?”

  “For the chariot race amulet, certainly,” he replied.

  We haggled good-naturedly while he wrote the amulet for Salaman, until we agreed on somewhat less than my entire supply of ribbons for the total. On our walk back, I allowed Salaman to scold me for letting the scribe take advantage of my relative inexperience with bargaining, for I was convinced I’d gotten the better deal. I teased him in return that an amulet for winning at chariot races could scarcely be effective if everyone else at the hippodrome had one.

  Rabbi Avahu’s gate had just come into view when Salaman turned to me. “I heard that your brother calls you something less formal than Hisdadukh.”

  “My siblings have called me Dada since I was a baby.�
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  “Only your siblings? What about your friends?”

  “I’ve lived a sheltered life. I don’t have many friends.”

  Then came the question I was dreading. “Well, then, what did your husband call you? Surely not Hisdadukh.”

  “No, he called me Dodi.”

  Salaman’s blank expression made me recall that he didn’t know Hebrew, and what he said next proved it. “I like it better than Dada, which does sound like a baby’s name.”

  I gathered my courage and risked insulting him. “Even so, I’d rather you didn’t call me that.”

  To my surprise, he nodded. “I understand. Would you mind, then, as your first friend here, if I called you Dada?”

  “Since I don’t have any siblings in the West, it would be nice to hear someone say it.” It would help me think of Salaman more as a brother than a suitor.

  Whether because it was different from my family’s celebration in Bavel or because it reminded me of it, the Pesach festival meal at Rabbi Avahu’s was a disappointment. Considering how unconcerned Jews in the West were about demons and drinking pairs, I was not surprised that there was no blood on the doorposts of Rabbi Avahu’s house. But I still intended to drink only an odd number of cups of wine. I was surprised, however, that instead of sitting on chairs or cushions, we were given individual couches to recline on.

  I tried to hide my regret that, with only a few children present, the lively Ma Nishtana session I so enjoyed at home was limited here to the three questions concerning the matzah, bitter herbs, and roasted meat cited in Mishna. Nobody mentioned anything about staffs or shoes, while in Sura everyone eagerly anticipated getting new sandals for Pesach—sandals they would wear for the first time at the festive meal. The matzah was already neatly stacked on our tables, and of course none of the serious men here would have dreamed of snatching it from another’s.

  Rabbi Avahu told the Exodus story well, with occasional embellishment by his son, Rabbi Chanina, and his colleagues Rabbis Abba and Chiya. But the majority in the room seemed more interested in the upcoming meal. As expected, I sat with the women, and for the early part of the evening, I was occupied with keeping Yehudit interested in the proceedings. Once my daughter went to bed, however, I was forced to listen to my companions’ conversation, which started with complaints about how much work it was for women to prepare for Pesach and how exhausted they were from the arduous process.

  I was beginning to feel sympathy for these women when the subject changed to other aspects of being a rabbi’s wife. I told myself it was the wine speaking, but it was distressing to listen as both Rabbi Abba’s and Rabbi Chiya’s wives made several attempts to elevate their husbands’ status at the expense of Rabbi Avahu’s.

  After the third ritual cup of wine, which was the minimum they’d imbibed, I cringed when Rabbi Abba’s wife turned to Susanna and said, “My husband is every bit the equal of Rabbi Avahu and shows him extra honor only because of his wealth.”

  Rabbi Chiya’s wife was quick to add, “Though fewer people attend my husband’s classes on Jewish Law than Rabbi Avahu’s homilies, it should be compared to two merchants, one selling precious stones and the other knickknacks.” She smiled smugly. “Since only a select few can afford the precious stones, the knickknack merchant will attract more buyers.”

  “My husband created that parable,” Susanna interjected, “in order to assuage Rabbi Chiya’s hurt feelings.”

  Frowning, Rabbi Chiya’s wife declared, “My husband only accompanies Rabbi Avahu home each day out of respect for his relationship to the governor.”

  Susanna promptly pointed out that her husband had accompanied Rabbi Chiya home just the day before.

  I’d had enough and craned my neck to listen to the men. But their conversation was no improvement. Until this time I’d envied Susanna her handsome, learned, and rich husband, but now I saw the jealousy she had to contend with, jealousy Rabbi Avahu obviously had to deflect as well. I thought of Mother and Father, and how fortunate they were that nobody would begrudge Father’s wealth and position as long as Rav Nachman and Yalta were there to attract all the resentment. But this brought to mind images of the Pesach meal my family was enjoying at that very moment without me. A wave of homesickness and longing to see my son washed over me.

  It must have been my foul mood that caused me to say what I next did to the women: “Pesach is the Festival of Freedom, when we celebrate how Elohim freed us from bondage in Egypt. Yet everywhere I go in the West, there are slaves, Jewish slaves, and nobody has redeemed them. Doesn’t the Torah say that Hebrew slaves in Eretz Israel are to be freed after six years?”

  The room was suddenly so quiet that I could hear the waves of the Great Sea outside.

  Rabbi Avahu turned to me and replied, “The law only applies when Jews are sovereign in our own land. Now that Rome rules us, and enslaves us, it is better that poor Jews sell themselves to other Jews rather than become slaves of idolaters.”

  The merchants and their families hurried to say their good-byes, Rabbi Chiya’s wife among them. Next Susanna, her daughter-in-law, and Rabbi Abba’s wife, pleading fatigue, excused themselves too. Except for the slaves, I was the only female left in the room, but I was determined to redeem the evening by listening to the scholars discuss the laws of Pesach. Salaman had stayed as well, but I didn’t dare speculate why.

  Much as Father began his lessons, Rabbi Avahu started with Mishna. “Even the poorest in Israel does not eat without reclining, and they should give him no fewer than four cups of wine, even if they come from the charity plate,” he recited.

  The other rabbis nodded, and after a glance to see if I was following, he continued with a Baraita: “All are obligated to drink these four cups—men, women, and children. Rabbi Judah asked what the purpose was for children to drink wine and said, rather, we give them roasted grain kernels and nuts on Pesach eve so they will ask questions and not fall asleep.”

  Rabbi Abba added another Baraita on the subject: “Rabbi Eliezer said we snatch matzah on the night of Pesach on account of the children, so they shouldn’t fall asleep.”

  At this point I expected a debate to resolve the difference between how Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Judah said to keep the children awake or, at a minimum, for someone to question what it meant to “snatch” matzah.

  But Rabbi Chiya continued with another Baraita instead. “A man is obligated to gladden his children and his household on the festivals, but how does he gladden them? Men with what is suitable for them and women with what is suitable for them.”

  Rabbi Avahu inclined his head in my direction. “A Baraita teaches that while men are gladdened with wine, women in Eretz Israel are gladdened with new white linen clothes and women of Bavel with new colored clothes.” His voice rose at the end as if asking was this true.

  “I can’t speak for the West,” I said, “but in Sura the women do receive new colored garments at Pesach.” I didn’t add that men also got new clothes then, but, frustrated with the lack of debate, I found the courage to ask, “Going back to Rabbi Eliezer, what does he mean by snatching the matzah?”

  My question probably astonished the men, for it was some time before Rabbi Chanina said, “Perhaps he explains why we take the table of ritual foods away early, so the children will ask why it is removed before we’ve eaten.”

  Rabbi Abba disagreed. “Since food makes children drowsy, we take the matzah away before they eat their fill of it and fall asleep.”

  Rabbi Chiya added another possibility. “We hurry to eat the matzah before they fall asleep.”

  Rabbi Avahu may have known something of customs in Bavel because he replied, “Maybe Rabbi Eliezer physically grabs it off the children’s plates to get their attention.”

  To my disappointment, there was no attempt to reach a conclusion. Rabbi Chanina continued with a Baraita teaching that when the Temple stood, rejoicing at festivals was done by eating the sacrificial meat, but now we rejoice with wine.

  I was reminded of
the story Yochani told me about Rabbi Yohanan’s grief after Reish Lakish died. Hoping that Rabbi Yohanan would be consoled if they found him a new study partner, his colleagues sent him the brilliant young scholar Rabbi Elazar ben Pedat. But no matter what Rabbi Yohanan said, Rabbi Elazar would reply with a Baraita that supported him.

  Finally the infuriated Rabbi Yohanan sent him away, crying, “You are not like Lakish. Whatever I said, he would pose twenty-four objections, and I would give twenty-four resolutions, so that in the end the law was clear. But you only tell me that a Baraita supports me, and of this I am well aware.”

  I was well aware that I would hear no scintillating debate tonight, only one tedious Baraita after another, like Rabbi Elazar ben Pedat produced. I needed no more evidence that Father was right about the superior sages and students in Bavel. I covered a yawn with my hand and excused myself to go to bed, thankful I’d be celebrating Pesach in Sura next year.

  Rabbi Avahu accompanied me out, and when we reached my doorway, he said, “I thought you’d be interested to know that a Baraita teaches, ‘The Law of Hebrew slaves is in effect only when the Jubilee year is in effect, as it is written: Until the Jubilee year he shall serve you.’ Thus until the Jubilee is observed again, all laws concerning Jewish slaves, including that they are freed after six years, are also not observed.”

  “I appreciate you teaching this to me,” I replied, gratified that he’d taken my question seriously.

  Judging by the crowds at the chariot races, most of the Jews in Caesarea were taking advantage of Chol haMoed, the intermediate days of Pesach when work was forbidden but few other restrictions applied. Located next to the sea, the hippodrome benefited from ocean breezes that kept the stands cool despite the direct sunshine and also dispersed the smell of so many sweating bodies packed together. Salaman told me that it held over fifteen thousand spectators, and I was sure I’d never seen so many people in one location before.