by Maggie Anton
The slender one replied politely, “It’s good to meet you. My name is Claudia, and we come from Macedonia.”
“I’m Julia, and I thank you for addressing us in Greek,” the pregnant one said. “Aramaic is still a struggle for me.”
“Won’t you join us for the midday meal?” Yochani asked them, always eager to display her hospitality and learn more about newcomers.
The two exchanged uncertain looks until Claudia spoke. “It would be a pleasure,” she said apologetically. “But our children are at home and we’ve been gone some time already.”
“You have children? How old are they?” I couldn’t restrain my excitement. “I have a little girl who’ll be three at Rosh Hashana.”
“All of you are welcome to dine with us,” Yochani added, which brightened them considerably.
“I also have a three-year-old daughter,” Julia replied.
Claudia beamed with pride. “My sons are four and just over a year.”
“How are we going to feed them all?” I asked Yochani as we hurried back. “They’ll have personal slaves plus nurses for the children.”
Once Yochani recovered from her initial annoyance at the way I’d been secretly funneling money to her through Simeon, she recognized that she would have to let me share expenses openly until I left. Our present difficulty, however, was that the shops were closed on Shabbat and butchering animals was forbidden as well.
“I was hoping Simeon might be here for Shabbat, so I slaughtered two extra chickens,” she said. “I expect that these God-fearers will be amazed at how I provided so much food with so little notice.”
“God-fearers?” I’d been in Sepphoris for almost two years and never heard of them.
“Romans and Greeks who are attracted to Judaism but haven’t converted,” she replied. “They believe in one God, attend synagogue, and have given up most of their old pagan practices, but they don’t observe all the commandments or consider themselves Jewish.”
“Why don’t they convert?” It didn’t seem right for people to pick and choose the parts of Judaism they’d follow. True, some Jews accepted the Mishna and some didn’t, but one was either a Jew who abided by the written Torah or a pagan who didn’t.
“Many reasons, but I think niddah restrictions and circumcision are the biggest barriers. Maybe that’s why so many God-fearers seem to be women.”
When Julia and Claudia arrived with their entourage, including a wet nurse for Claudia’s baby, which explained her svelte figure, few would have guessed that Yochani had expected only a third that number at her table. Her two guests were so impressed by our blessings over the bread and wine that she had no choice but to translate the Hebrew and explain why we, coming from rabbinic families, said them. That was the beginning of a learning experience for all of us.
As Yochani had surmised, Julia and Claudia were God-fearers. They had never felt right worshipping the pantheon of Roman gods and were intrigued by what they’d heard about Judaism. But it was only when their centurion husbands were posted to Palestina that they got the chance to live among Jews and attend synagogue regularly.
“I value the moral life that Elohim wants us to follow,” Julia said. Then she smiled and added, “And I don’t mind giving up pork as much as I thought I would.”
“Elohim created us in His image and wants us to follow His laws so we won’t sin,” Claudia said soberly. “I don’t care about pork, but my husband abhors circumcision and feels entitled to lie with me whenever he wants, whether I’m bleeding or not.”
I helped myself to chicken stew, stretched further by leeks and legumes from Yochani’s garden, and noted that she had been absolutely right about God-fearers’ difficulty with Judaism.
“Excuse my ignorance,” Julia addressed Yochani and me. “Since you are both daughters of rabbis, maybe you can explain exactly what a rabbi is and what he does.”
“Is he some kind of priest?” Claudia asked.
Yochani indicated that I should answer, so I gave a simple explanation. “Rabbis are Torah scholars, experts in interpreting scripture, so Jews can come to them with questions about what the Torah tells us to do. Some teach the Law to children and older students, others judge Jewish legal cases.”
There was no reason to tell these God-fearers that rabbis were not respected by all Jews, so I continued with a short description of the priesthood. “Priests used to preside over the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, but now they have no official duties.”
Claudia noticed that I used the word “now” about priests. “So Jewish priests still exist?” she asked.
“Priests are descended from Jacob’s son Levi, so priestly families continue to exist, both here and in Babylonia.” I assumed they were somewhat familiar with scripture. “My father and brothers are Kohen, descendants of Moses’s brother Aaron, the first high priest.” My throat tightened and I hesitated for a moment before adding, “As was my husband.”
“Kohen are honored with the first Torah reading in synagogue,” Yochani added. “And by blessing the congregation with the priestly benediction.”
“Do rabbis do anything special in synagogue?” Julia asked.
Yochani and I looked at each other and shook our heads. “Sometimes a rabbi gives a homily,” she replied, although this was a rare occurrence.
The conversation continued pleasantly, so much so that Yochani encouraged our guests to let their children nap at her home so they could prolong their visit. Julia and Claudia complained good-naturedly about being married to Roman army officers, but admitted the pay and chances for advancement were worth the risks.
“Where are your husbands now?” I asked. When they looked at me suspiciously, I quickly added, “I’m merely curious. I may be from Babylonia, but I don’t care who wins this war. I just want it to end soon so I can go home again.” That wasn’t entirely true. After seeing the ruins of Jerusalem, I’d much rather be ruled by Persia than by Rome.
“I suppose the position of so many legions cannot be secret,” Julia replied. “They’re in Syria, guarding the Euphrates as a precaution against a Persian attack against Antioch or Emesa.”
“General Galerius is leading troops east from the Danube frontier to attack Narseh,” Claudia said with some relief. “So hopefully our men will not see much fighting.”
I slapped my hand on the table. “That’s an amulet Ezra didn’t teach me!” I exclaimed. “One for soldiers in battle.” Nearly every soldier I saw wore one.
Julia’s eyes opened wide. “You write amulets?”
“Of course she does,” Yochani said proudly. “Hisdadukh is a Chaldean.”
“Would you mind…” Julia cleared her throat. “I mean, what would you charge to write amulets for me and my daughter?” She looked around cautiously and then whispered, “I need one now that I’m expecting a baby.”
“I can’t write them on Shabbat, but if you come back…” I stopped to consider when the next auspicious time was. “If you return tomorrow morning, I can inscribe them for you both then.”
“Could you write some for my children too?” Claudia asked.
“Certainly.” I named a price that women who wore such nicely decorated stolae could likely afford.
The children were beginning to wake up, so our talk of amulets ceased. From that point on, we watched the children play and talked about domestic matters until it was time for the evening meal. All in all, it was such a congenial Shabbat that we agreed to meet again with the children next week.
Though it was well after dark when they left, Yochani and I tacitly agreed to delay Havdalah, the ceremony the Rabbis instituted to ritually end Shabbat, until they were gone. We didn’t want to overwhelm the God-fearers with too many rabbinic innovations at once.
When I saw Salaman later that week, I questioned him about God-fearers. “They seem like nice women, but I don’t know if I approve of them or not.” The am-ha’aretz who followed Torah and rejected Mishna were bad enough, but they were far better than the people who rejecte
d parts of Torah and followed others.
“There are quite a few of them, especially in Caesarea. In some ways they’re like Jews and in some ways not.”
“How so?” I wondered if he’d give me the same explanation Yochani, Julia, and Claudia had.
He paused to think. “They’re like Jews in that they only believe in one God, they pray to Him at synagogue, and they commend His moral world in which good people are rewarded after they die and sinners are punished.”
“And how not?” I asked. “Besides disapproving of circumcision.”
“God-fearers don’t find the old pagan sacrifices meaningful, so they don’t mourn the Temple’s destruction,” he replied. “In fact, I don’t think they feel any special attachment to Jerusalem or Eretz Israel at all.”
“They don’t abide by the Rabbis, either,” I complained. “They’ve never even heard of them.”
Salaman flashed his perfect smile. “Neither do most Jews, Dada.”
I stuck out my tongue like I used to do at my brothers. “You’re just saying that to tease me.” Confined to the West as I was, I allowed myself to enjoy Salaman’s charms instead of worrying about his intentions.
“I apologize. And to make it up to you, you can come with me to see where the mosaics will go in the villa.”
“You’re laying them already?” I headed for the door. So far I’d only seen the boards with their reverse templates.
“Not quite yet, but I can show you where they’ll go.”
We walked up the acropolis until I could hear workers hammering. Then he led me just east of the citadel and above the theater, where a large building was nearing completion.
“Ha-Elohim!” I gasped once my eyes adjusted to the lack of light indoors. We had entered what would be the triclinium, an enormous dining room. “This is even larger than the floor at Rabbi Avahu’s.”
Salaman nodded. “It’s over fifteen by twenty cubits and will contain fifteen different panels surrounded by twenty medallions.” He pointed to the center of one side and then to the other. “Your portrait will go here and here.”
“Whose residence is this?”
“One of the city councilors.”
“Oh.” I nodded. The men who made up the city council were the richest and most powerful Jews in Sepphoris.
“Did you know that when Bar Kokhba led his rebellion, the city council here refused to support him?” Salaman asked. “For a reward, the Romans poured huge amounts of money into projects like the water system, public latrines, and paved streets, in addition to building the theater and hippodrome. They stationed an army legion nearby, which brought Sepphoris’s merchants additional commerce, and built roads for them to travel on.”
I didn’t know what to say. According to what I’d heard, Bar Kokhba was a hero supported by all the Jews in Eretz Israel. Not that the rabbis mentioned him much in Bavel. So I changed the subject. “Salaman, how soon will you start laying the floor?”
“Probably in the next few months. I want to have all the templates ready first, so I can lay them out and make sure they fit together properly.”
“May I come and watch?”
“Of course, Dada,” he replied. “But I warn you that your portraits will be among the last pieces to go down.”
“Claudia said that General Galerius is on his way to Armenia now,” I said soberly. “If his attack against King Narseh is successful, I may be able to go home for Rosh Hashana.”
As much as I enjoyed Yochani’s and Salaman’s company, I was haunted by thoughts of Chama growing up without me. Plus I needed to receive my get from Abba bar Joseph and free myself from the limbo of his invalid betrothal.
But the stars were not aligned for me, although they were perfectly aligned for the Persian king Narseh. Roman troops crossed the Euphrates, but Galerius had greatly underestimated his foe. Rome suffered a massive defeat and was compelled to flee, with Persia’s army in pursuit. The result so far was that Rome had not only failed to dislodge Narseh from Armenia but had lost the province of Mesopotamia too.
Claudia and Julia reported that Diocletian was beside himself with rage. The emperor arrived in Antioch and declared that Galerius must take all the blame. He ordered Galerius punished in an act of public humiliation, forcing the general to walk through the dusty streets in front of Diocletian’s chariot.
At first I’d been overjoyed that the war was over and I could finally leave. But word came that Galerius was mobilizing an enormous army, not only from Syria and Palestina, but with reinforcements from the Danube frontier. Nobody knew exactly when he’d attack, but nobody wanted to be in the way either.
With their husbands ordered to the front, Claudia and Julia looked to Yochani and me to help fill their anxious hours in a city full of strangers. This usually worked out well, as it provided Yehudit with playmates between the hours I spent teaching her to read. Perhaps it was a mother’s pride, but it seemed to me that she learned especially quickly. Studying from both the Hebrew and the Aramaic versions of Torah, she made such swift progress that at times I almost burst with joy.
The God-fearers accompanied us to the bathhouse, where I noticed one morning that it no longer struck me as odd that married women in the West didn’t remove the hair from their armpits or between their legs. I had to admit that their acquaintance was helpful when I became dashtana again, for Claudia was able to provide me with all the supplies necessary to manage my flow.
We went to the theater or chariot races at least weekly, but Yochani and I declined to attend any of the gladiatorial contests. So while Julia and Claudia entertained themselves at the coliseum, I was at Salaman’s workshop. For some reason, I was far more reticent to share my personal life with them than they were with me. Of course they knew I was a widow, but the last thing I wanted anyone to know was why I hadn’t remarried.
With the return of my menses, I understood that it was only a matter of time. I began to have erotic dreams, sometimes of Rami, but more often featuring Salaman or Rabbi Avahu. There were a few occasions when I woke in the night so aroused that I used my own hands to do what Rami had done with his. My body was telling me that I’d lived without a husband too long.
But the problem literally reared its ugly head when we all took a trip to the therapeutic hot springs at Hammat, just outside Tiberias. We had arranged to stay several days at one of Hammat’s hostels, and then spend Shabbat with Yochani’s son Eliezer in Tiberias. But whom should I encounter, coming out of the men’s dressing rooms as I was leaving the women’s, but father’s old student Zeira, looking even darker and more hunchbacked than I remembered.
“Hisdadukh.” His countenance was suffused with astonishment and joy. “I heard that you’d moved to the West, but I never imagined our paths would cross here.”
“Zeira!” I tried to sound more pleased than I felt. “What brings you here?”
“I’m Rav Zeira now,” he replied. “And I’m here for the same reason you are, to observe Elohim’s commandment to live in the holy land of Eretz Israel.”
“How long have you been here? Have you seen my father recently?” My mood had improved immediately upon hearing that Zeira had no inkling why I’d really left Bavel.
“I guessed that Rome was unlikely to attack King Narseh during the rainy season, so I took a chance and came across the southern Silk Road this past winter,” he said. “Your father and mother are well, which I know because I was studying with Rav Hisda until just before I left.”
“Are you staying at Hammat? If so, we must dine together.” Perhaps my invitation sounded too enthusiastic, but I was eager to hear the latest news from home.
“I would enjoy that, though I’m only here until tomorrow.” His disappointment was obvious. “I’m studying with Rabbis Assi and Ami in Tiberias, and I need to be back for Shabbat.”
Zeira’s face lit up again when I told him, “We are also going to Tiberias for Shabbat.” Then he followed me like a puppy into the dining room.
Yochani and the God-
fearers took one look at my ugly companion and promptly sat elsewhere. Yehudit stayed with me only long enough for a few mouthfuls before deserting me for Julia’s daughter, her new best friend. But sharing a meal with Zeira was not at all disagreeable, as he shared story after story about Father, my brothers, and the current crop of students in Sura. In passing, I learned that Abaye’s first wife had died and he was now remarried, and that Abba bar Joseph still had no children.
To my relief, Zeira seemed to have no interest in what I’d been doing these last three years, and did not even ask where I was living. Unlike Father, he had a high opinion of the scholars in Tiberias and occasionally interrupted his tales of Bavel with ones that praised Rabbis Assi, Ami, and Elazar ben Pedat. Zeira was especially anxious about learning from Rabbi Assi, for the sage was infamous for his bad temper, especially when he was questioned overmuch. I was content to say as little as possible, although when Zeira mentioned how much he admired Rabbi Avahu, I couldn’t resist remarking that I’d spent Pesach with the rabbi’s family.
When we shared the evening meal later that day, I did question him about his journey here, thinking that perhaps I too could make the trip during the winter rainy season.
But he shuddered at the memory. “I’m sure I survived only because I was involved in performing a mitzvah,” he replied. “With so many Saracen princes and much of Persia’s army occupied in Armenia, there is no one left to guard the trade routes. Lawless bands and brigands scour the desert for the few travelers desperate or foolhardy enough to attempt the journey. Our caravan was attacked twice, and men died each time.”
He continued for some time with details of the raids, turning what must have been a harrowing and exciting experience into one so boring that I entertained myself by watching Yehudit and Julia’s daughter play tag among the tables. I paid him so little attention that the only thing I heard was that he had barely escaped with his life, which he repeated several times. I doubted he suspected my motive for bringing up the subject, but he still managed to frighten me into abandoning any plans for returning to Bavel until peace was reestablished.
