by Maggie Anton
I thought of Imarta, how she’d been left an agunah by her camel-driver husband. I wanted to comfort them, but the best I could say was, “Something important must have delayed them, and they’ll be home any day now. And even if they’ve been captured, Father has plenty of money to ransom them.”
Tazi shot me such a scathing look that I cringed. “I should be so lucky that my husband has merely been captured,” she whispered. “If Samuel is lost without witnesses, buried in an east-wind sandstorm for example, I’ll become an agunah. And should he die on the road, I’ll have to give up my children to his family if I wish to remarry.”
I could only stare at her in dismay. I felt confident that the amulets with Father’s traveler’s incantation would protect them, but perhaps they had encountered several dangerous situations that had weakened the amulets’ powers.
Pazi nodded. “At Tachlifa’s death, my choice would be to live out my widowhood here as my son’s guardian or to relinquish him and remarry.”
“What a dreadful choice,” I said. The obvious solution, for Pazi to marry one of my surviving brothers, was forbidden by the Torah. Yet she would have to remarry. While it was acceptable for an elderly widow to live alone or with a grown child, a young woman without a husband would be scorned.
“As if that weren’t bad enough,” Tazi said, “Pazi and I would probably never see each other again.”
This time I spoke more carefully. “Heaven forbid that either Samuel or Tachlifa should die, but you wouldn’t have to be separated and give up your children.”
They both looked at me in disbelief, and I continued, “Yenuka and Nachman have sons close to your age. If you married one of them, you’d still be part of our family.”
Pazi smiled wanly. “I realize that you’re trying to be helpful, Dada, but there’s nothing any of us can do about it now. We just have to wait and see.”
A sudden terror of what I’d do if Rami died made me change the subject and ask about their weaving. “Why are your ribbons so much narrower than before? Are you running out of silk?”
“We always start weaving narrow ribbons in the spring,” Tazi replied. “You never noticed?”
Embarrassed, I shook my head.
“They’re for Tiragan,” Pazi replied. When I looked at her blankly, she continued. “It’s a Persian festival that they celebrate on the day of Tir in the month of Tir.”
“But that’s months from now,” I said. “In summer.”
The Persian year, like ours, consisted of twelve months. But while our months started with the new moon, theirs were unconnected to the lunar cycle. The Persians didn’t have weeks like we did either, and instead had a different name for each of the thirty days that made up a month. Since they enjoyed holidays so much, each month Persians celebrated the specific day that shared its name with the month.
“It takes a long time to weave all the ribbons they need,” Tazi said. “One of the ways they celebrate is by tying rainbow-colored ribbons into bracelets.”
“And when Tiragan ends,” Pazi added, “they toss the ribbons into the air and let the wind carry them away, to evoke a rainbow. It’s very pretty to watch.”
“That’s not all.” Tazi seemed to have forgotten her worries. “The rainbow reminds us of the rain that comes in the fall, so everyone goes to the canals to play and splash one another in the water. It’s great fun when the weather is hot.”
My jaw dropped. “You celebrated Tiragan?” Father would have considered that idolatry.
Tazi blushed, but Pazi only shrugged. “All the Jews in Machoza do. It’s not like we’re worshipping the Persian God.”
“They celebrate it in Sura too,” Tazi said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t need to weave so many narrow ribbons.”
Soon our entire family was anxious for Tachlifa and Samuel to return. The first night of Pesach was the least celebratory I could recall, not that I spent much time at the table. Despite wanting to stay awake to hear Father and my brothers discuss the Exodus from Egypt, I fell asleep before the children did.
The festival week ended with no word from Tachlifa and Samuel. Though I tried to convince myself that surely we would have heard if they’d died or been captured, I headed back to Rami’s home with a much-dimmed hope for their return.
Once there I was quickly distracted by how much baby Yehezkel had grown in the nearly four months since I’d seen him, how easily he crawled and pulled himself up to stand. I observed him keenly as the model for what Chama would be doing in six months, and noted that both Achti and Ukva seemed happy to treat him as their son.
Pushbi’s decline also distracted me. I wanted to convince myself that her skin was sallow because she hadn’t been outdoors in so long and that her weakness came from all that time in bed. She and baby Chama were a perfect match—both of them content for her to hold him until one of them wanted to be fed or required a change of swaddling. Aware that it wouldn’t be long before Chama would prefer to be sitting or crawling, and that Pushbi might not live to see it, I put him into her arms whenever she wanted.
But I never left him alone with her.
Once, when she seemed in a particularly good mood, I remembered to ask her about the amulet she’d written to protect Rami in the privy. But her memory had declined along with her body, and all she could tell me was that it had something in it about “silence and modesty.”
Tachlifa’s fate slipped into my thoughts occasionally, and slipped out again when Chama needed me or when Yehezkel did something entertaining. The thought of my brother’s body buried somewhere in the desert was too terrible to contemplate.
Yet it seemed odd that no word at all had come to us.
I found out why after Pesach was over, when Rami came home from court unexpectedly for the midday meal.
Before I could ask what he was doing here, he rushed in and embraced me. “Tachlifa and Samuel are safe.”
Achti sighed with relief. “Thank Heaven.”
I hugged Rami tightly. “When did they get back?”
“They haven’t returned yet,” he replied. “In fact, they could be anywhere between Antioch and Sura.”
Achti squinted her eyes with suspicion. “So how do you know they’re safe?”
“Rav Sheshet was correct to say that he trembled before your father’s great analytical skills,” Rami said proudly. “Since many merchants traveled in Tachlifa’s caravan, Rav Hisda assumed that he would have heard by now if his son had died or been captured. Also nobody was talking about any caravans lost in the desert or delayed by east-wind storms.”
When Rami saw that we were following his logic, he continued, “Therefore Rav Hisda concluded that Tachlifa and Samuel had been delayed and, furthermore, that they would have sent messages home. Since no message came to Sura, he reasoned, perhaps one had gone to Pazi’s family in Machoza, especially since her brother or cousin was likely traveling with them.” Rami smiled widely. “So when Abba bar Joseph went home for Pesach, Rav Hisda had him inquire if anyone had heard from them.”
I clapped my hands with glee. “And they had.” My amulets had kept them safe after all.
“Indeed. Samuel wrote that winter storms on the Great Sea had delayed most shipping, so he and Tachlifa decided to wait them out in Antioch. From there it was only a short journey overland to the Euphrates, where they’d hire a barge to bring them and their merchandise south.”
Antioch, named after the Greek general that Judah Maccabee’s men had defeated, was the Roman capital of the East. Timonus described it as the largest Roman city after Alexandria and Rome itself, with a population of half a million people, not counting slaves. Many trading routes converged there, and with so many merchants and soldiers in the city temporarily, its vices, luxuries, and pleasures were legendary.
I never learned exactly what Timonus meant by all those legendary pastimes, although my brothers likely got a thorough description. But the admiration in his voice meant that Tachlifa and Samuel would probably not object to being delayed there. Y
et when Tachlifa returned the following week and I pressed him on the subject, he told me that the only thing he’d miss about Antioch was its bathhouses.
I’d heard about public bathhouses from Father’s visitors from Eretz Israel, who inevitably complained about the lack of them in Bavel. Only Jews like the exilarch or Rav Nachman had baths in their homes. Jewish women immersed in a nearby river or canal, like our family did. The Magi’s insistence that water was too holy to desecrate with men’s filthy bodies ensured that Persia would never be known for its baths.
“So was your wait worthwhile?” I wondered how any amount of money could make up for the anxiety their tardiness had caused.
Tachlifa looked so abashed that he must have known what I meant. “I’m sorry that word of our delay didn’t get to Sura,” he said. “But the wait was certainly profitable.”
Before I could ask why Sura had remained ignorant of their plans, he asked, “Do you want to see what we brought back? Everything is still in one of Father’s storerooms.”
He grinned with such excitement that I couldn’t refuse, even though I wanted to punish him for the anguish he’d caused Pazi and the rest of us.
“Ha-Elohim!” I gulped as sunlight illuminated the room’s interior.
“Rome is famous for its bronze and metalwork.” He held up one shiny vessel or tool after another. Then he indicated the shelves, which were heavy with translucent pitchers and goblets. “And for its glassware.”
I pointed toward the floor. “What’s in the chests?”
His eyes glittered as he approached the largest one. “I don’t know if we’ll offer it to the exilarch first or take it directly to Machoza for the Persian royal family.” He paused before adding, “Although I heard that King Bahram II is ill and not expected to survive, so it might be best to wait.”
I watched impatiently as he pulled the chest into the light and unlocked it. “Won’t his son succeed him?”
“Bahram III is very young and too easily manipulated by the Magi. Rumor has it that the nobility prefers his uncle Narseh.” He threw back the lid and smiled proudly.
“How beautiful,” I whispered, reaching out to stroke the bolt of deep-purple cloth. “And so soft.”
“It’s the finest wool from Britain, dyed with tekhelet,” he explained. “The dye is so rare and sought after that only Roman imperial dye works are permitted to utilize it and only royalty permitted to wear it.”
“What’s in the others?” I was impressed, not only with my brother’s merchandise, but also at how much supposedly secret information he’d obtained.
“All except one contain more bronze and steel goods, including some very fine swords.” Tachlifa beckoned me closer. “You’ll have to come here to see what’s in it. It’s too heavy to lift.”
I cautiously followed him through the crowded storeroom to the small chest and waited while he removed various items from on top of it. Then, after carefully positioning his body between the doorway and chest, he unlocked it. He hesitated, cocking his ear for sounds of anyone nearby, and slowly opened it.
I gasped and immediately covered my mouth with my hand. Even in the shadows, the gleam of gold was unmistakable. The chest was full of coins.
“You couldn’t have used one of those to hire a messenger?” I asked when we were back outside.
Tachlifa sighed. “We did, but evidently not a trustworthy one.”
“Why be a merchant if it’s such an unreliable profession? Why not a rabbi in Sura?”
“I’m not as clever as Nachman or as pious as Mari, and Hanan and Pinchas manage the brewery just fine without me,” he said. “Besides, I like seeing more of the world than I would if I were merely one of the exilarch’s many bureaucrats.” Then he gave me a wink. “And it pays a great deal more than the exilarch does.”
Tachlifa and Samuel stayed in Sura only a few weeks before leaving for Machoza with their wives and merchandise. They’d be back in early summer, when it was time for the men to journey west again. Though I trusted our household, I couldn’t resist peeking through the storeroom window every few days to see that his chest of gold coins remained undisturbed.
PART TWO
KING NARSEH’S REIGN
• (293–299 CE) •
NINETEEN
FIRST YEAR OF KING BAHRAM III’S REIGN
• 293 CE •
The summer day when Chama first smiled at me was the beginning of three years of bliss. Suddenly I understood my sister’s infatuation with Yehezkel and how an entire day could go by with nothing to show for it but Chama and me grinning at each other. I was so besotted with my son that it was over a month before I noticed a subtle change in Rami’s temperament. He seemed to enjoy Chama’s smiles as much as I did, and was as eager to use the bed as ever, but his reports of what he’d learned at Father’s were not quite so enthusiastic as before.
“Is something wrong with your studies?” I finally asked as we snuggled together in bed one evening.
“No, everything is fine.” Both his hurried reply and artificial cheerfulness belied his answer.
I let my hand stroke the bare skin of his arms and chest. “Are the merchants in the marketplace giving you any trouble?”
He shook his head. “Though it’s only been a short time since Rav Huna appointed me their supervisor, they all respect my authority.”
“You can tell me what’s bothering you,” I whispered. “Maybe I can help.”
“Nobody can help, Dodi. Certainly not you.”
So there was something wrong. “You won’t know unless you tell me.” I tried to sound seductive.
After some hesitation, he said in a voice as hard as stone, “It’s Abba bar Joseph.”
I bristled at the mention of Abba’s name. “What has he done now?”
“At first I thought it was my imagination,” Rami said. “After all, it’s normal for students to disagree with one another, and even to get quite vehement in our disputes. But Abba seems to attack me personally, rather than my argument, and in a different manner than when he debates Abaye, for example.”
“What kinds of things does he say?”
“Remember how Abba liked to shame me by sarcastically saying that, because of the quickness of my mind, I had made a careless error?” When I nodded, Rami continued, “He’s doing it again.”
“What were you discussing the first time?”
“A difficult section from the fourth chapter of Tractate Niddah,” he said. “I asked whether the zavah, who must count seven clean days before she is no longer impure from the abnormal vaginal discharge that marks her as a zavah, interrupts her count or cancels it if she discharges semen.”
“Why would Abba object to your question?” I asked. “It seems reasonable to me.”
“He called it irrelevant and again accused me of erring because my mind was so sharp.” Rami frowned at the memory. “Then he insisted on giving a lengthy explanation of why a zavah who discharges semen does not cancel even one day of her count.”
“But your question is relevant, because it’s about a woman,” I said. “Torah teaches that a zav, a man with an abnormal discharge, doesn’t interrupt counting his seven clean days when he has a seminal emission. But a zavah might be different.”
“I know,” Rami said with exasperation. “But let’s not talk about it. It just makes me more upset.”
“Abba may be brilliant,” I said, “but he should be gracious in his arguments, not rude to those who oppose him.”
Rami’s voice rose with annoyance. “He’s not rude to everyone who opposes him, only to me.”
“Then you should feel flattered.”
“Why?”
“Because he envies you. I bore you a healthy son less than a year after our wedding, while his wife has yet to conceive. And my father is your teacher, a great scholar, while there are no rabbis in his wife’s family.”
Rami’s tone softened. “That explains why Abba got so angry at me today.”
“What happened today?
”
“Your father was teasing me, telling me that I’d missed some excellent teachings the previous evening.” Rami grinned and added, “When, of course, I was home enjoying you and Chama.”
“So you asked what they were.”
“I did, and he told me they discussed the case of a man who lives in another’s property without the owner’s knowledge. Does the squatter have to pay rent or not?”
I considered the situation. “I suppose it depends on whether the owner normally rents the property out or not.”
“Exactly. Can the squatter say to the owner: Since you don’t rent out the property, what loss have I caused you? Or does the owner say to the squatter: You have benefited from me so you should pay me?”
“So what made Abba angry?” I didn’t want to get caught up in the legal discussion yet.
“Since your father seemed so lighthearted, I teased him back by saying that a Mishna answered these questions, and that I would share it with him if he did me a small service.”
“And Father agreed?” I was amazed. Students normally served their teachers, not vice versa, so Father must have been in a good mood to reverse roles with Rami.
Rami nodded. “He picked up my cloak and folded it for me.”
I had to chuckle. Father was so fastidious that it must have irritated him to see Rami’s cloak lying wrinkled on the floor instead of neatly folded. “So what was the Mishna?”
“From the second chapter of Tractate Bava Kama, where it teaches about a woman’s animal that ate food dropped in the street,” he replied. “If she benefited, she pays what she has benefited.”
“Abba must have been offended at Father serving you, even if it was in jest.”
“Either that or he didn’t like me showing off my special relationship with our teacher,” Rami replied. “Abba sneered at me and said, ‘How saved from illness and worry is the one whom Heaven helps even though he sins. For this Mishna is not the same as his inquiry, yet Rav Hisda accepted it as proof.’”
I was shocked at Abba’s harsh words, accusing Rami of sinning. But I wanted to know how the debate ended, whether Rami or Abba won. “Why did Abba think it wasn’t the same?”
