by Maggie Anton
“Salaman, please.” I could feel my chin quivering and I stopped to control myself. “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“I’m sorry, Dodi.” His voice was sad too. “The last thing I want is to cause you pain.”
I brushed away tears and looked up at him. “You were right about all the reasons we shouldn’t marry, but that doesn’t make it easier to accept.” Inside I railed against the fate that had set Salaman and me in two incompatible worlds.
“I know.” He paused for a moment and seemed to be making a decision. “So unless you or Yochani can recommend someone for me, I will likely go to Rabbi Avahu’s for Tu B’Av this summer and find a bride there.”
I sniffed back my tears, determined to hide the blow his words had dealt me. Of course Salaman would want a virgin for his first wife, not a widow with children. “I don’t know many maidens in Sepphoris, but I can ask Yochani.”
“Are you going to Caesarea for Pesach again?” he asked. “If so, we could travel together.”
I made my decision that instant. “No, I’m going to Tiberias with Yochani.”
“That’s right, you have a friend there,” he said coolly. “A Chaldean rabbi.”
Though it was quite unworthy of me, and I was filled with remorse for even thinking it, I still felt a small sense of recompense that Salaman should be jealous too.
. . .
Two days later, when Simeon’s family arrived from Tyre on their way to Tiberias for Pesach, I was doubly appreciative to accompany them. In addition to saving me from Salaman’s painful company in Caesarea, Simeon had all the latest news about the continuing Roman assault. He also brought me a new supply of red silk thread, which made me realize how many amulets I’d been inscribing, because my stock was nearly gone.
For his part, Simeon and his wife were in excellent spirits, a perfect tonic for my misery. Not only had the war driven up prices, but Rosh Hashana would start the Sabbatical year, the one year in seven when the Torah commanded Jews in Eretz Israel to leave their land fallow. Since all agricultural activity—plowing, planting, pruning, harvesting—was also prohibited, grain and produce had to be imported. As a result, merchants such as Simeon stood to profit highly.
Simeon had further good news, at least as far as Rome was concerned. Galerius had pushed the Persian troops out of Mesopotamia, forcing them to retreat into Armenia. The rugged terrain there was favorable to Roman infantry, but not so for King Narseh’s cavalry. Simeon, convinced that locals would aid Galerius, expected Rome to prevail.
Hopeful that the war would end imminently, I rode into Tiberias in good spirits. My mood lifted higher when we arrived and I learned that Rav Zeira, perhaps hoping to spend the festival week in my company, had gone to Caesarea for Pesach with Rabbi Avahu. Every time I thought of Zeira and Salaman together there without me, it made me smile.
Thus the week passed pleasantly, with Simeon’s four-year-old daughter making a good companion for Yehudit. My heart swelled as I watched them laugh and play together with the old bowls and pots that had been replaced for Pesach, but I nearly burst with pride at how well Yehudit could now read Torah. My daughter was my treasure, one I wouldn’t have to give up until she married, and maybe not even then if I found her a local husband as Mother had for Achti and me.
Eliezer took us to see the birds at the Hula swamplands twice, the second visit being necessary because the first site had too many mosquitoes. Simeon’s year-old son entertained us by taking his first unsteady steps, which only served to remind me that normally I would have had another child by now. The Rabbis said that a previously fertile woman became barren if she didn’t lie with a man for ten years. It had already been almost five since Rami’s death, and my prospects for another marriage and more children seemed more remote than ever.
As the New Year approached, an abundance of wheat appeared in the souk and was snatched up as quickly as it had materialized.
“Jews in Israel hurry to harvest their grain and plant a new crop before the Sabbatical year begins,” Yochani explained.
“Then what happens? What will the farmers do for income?”
“The less pious will plow, plant, and harvest as usual, saying the old Laws don’t apply now that Israel is ruled by Rome,” she said sadly. “Others try to make do with what grows naturally and pray for sustenance from Heaven.”
“Can they arrange for their pagan neighbors to help?”
“Those who can, do, but every year more and more Jews relent and work their land.” Yochani sighed. “After all, the Romans collect their taxes and want their soldiers fed whether it’s a Sabbatical year or not.”
“We won’t go hungry, will we?” I asked anxiously.
She shook her head. “Cities have the resources to bring in food from abroad. It’s the villagers who suffer.”
Simeon’s family returned to celebrate Rosh Hashana in Tiberias. But this time his news was devastating. As he’d predicted, Galerius had defeated Narseh in Armenia. Amazingly, Roman forces completely routed the Persians, capturing the king’s harem, his wife, and their children. The poor queen and royal children were to live out the remainder of the war in Syria, a humiliating reminder of Persia’s loss. Simeon chortled lecherously at how Narseh’s harem had been distributed to the Roman officers as booty.
I cringed at the account, growing more distraught as I recognized that the war was far from over. Galerius, not content with merely seizing Narseh’s family and holding them for ransom, was determined to further avenge his previous shame by driving his army east toward Nisibis, deep into Persian territory. From there it would be an easy passage down the Euphrates to Ctesiphon, the heart of Bavel.
My throat tightened in fear as memories flooded back of frightened relatives fleeing to my childhood home in Kafri when Rome last sacked the Persian capital. I kept hearing Abba bar Joseph’s terrified voice as he questioned Timonus about the war. Ironically, I found some solace with Rav Zeira, who was even more apprehensive than I. My family, after all, was in Sura, away from the probable war zone, while his friends and colleagues were in Pumbedita and Nehardea, directly on the river. We prayed ardently that the Persian garrison at Nisibis would successfully defend their city and stop the Roman advance.
But our prayers were in vain. When we returned to Sepphoris, Julia and Claudia had word that the Romans had secured Nisibis before Sukkot. Narseh was begging for peace, but Galerius refused the Persian envoys and ordered his men down the Tigris toward Ctesiphon. I could only be grateful that they weren’t on the Euphrates instead.
Making me feel worse, the Jewish community of Sepphoris had been invited to the wedding of Salaman ben Marcus and Valeria bat Yosi, to take place on the first day of the following month.
Yochani insisted that we attend, while I, unable to endure the thought of Salaman bedding his bride in the next room, insisted with equal vigor that I would not remain past the wedding meal. In the end we compromised on staying through the dancing but leaving before the couple entered the bridal chamber. I wore the yellow silk and wool outfit that I’d first worn to Judah Nesiah’s at Hanukah.
Had it really been three years since that night when I’d first agreed to pose for Salaman’s mosaic?
Salaman noticed me immediately when we arrived, and his wistful expression made me pity him as much as I pitied myself. His bride was everything a maiden should be—young, demure, modest, pretty—and terrified. I was reminded of my friend Newandukh and the horror she endured after marrying an older man.
But surely Salaman’s sweet humor and skillful hands would make him a gentle lover. Still, I’d heard stories about women whose husbands preferred a different mate and who took out their dissatisfaction on their innocent brides. My own brother Keshisha had not been at all tender with Yenuka’s daughter Guria, now my sister-in-law as well as my niece, although by the time I heard the tale, things were different. And who knew how Abba treated Choran?
Stop thinking such carnal thoughts, I told myself severely. I’d only make
myself more frustrated and miserable. To ensure that no erotic dreams interrupted my sleep, I studied Tractate Ohalot before I went to bed. Nothing like reviewing the laws concerning impurity of corpses to restrain my yetzer hara.
The year went from bad to worse. After General Galerius sacked Ctesiphon, King Narseh agreed to peace, but at a terrible price. Rome regained Armenia and Upper Mesopotamia, along with some land east of the Tigris, making this the greatest eastern extension of Roman territory ever. In return Narseh’s wife and children were restored to him.
One might think that life in Roman Palestina would be better now that the war was over and her soldiers returning. But not all her soldiers would return; Claudia’s husband had died at the Battle of Satala and her fresh widow’s grief reopened the wound I thought I had nearly healed. The weather was unseasonably warm and dry, so Jews who planted despite the prohibition were seeing little return for their efforts. Between that and the army consuming much of the foodstuffs set aside for the Sabbatical year, people began to whisper about the possibility of famine. I worried how my land was doing in Bavel, not that there was any way I could find out.
In a new and appalling turn, Diocletian increased his persecution of the Nazarenes. Convinced that Rome had defeated Persia because the gods approved his efforts to obliterate the heretics, he ordered churches razed, their holy books burned, and all bishops and priests imprisoned. Galerius went further and demanded that any Nazarene who refused to sacrifice to the gods be burned alive—men, women, and children.
I had just put Yehudit down to nap after the midday meal on First Day, and I was thinking how sweet she looked while sleeping, her dark curls framing her face and her thumb in her mouth. I was looking forward to relaxing after a busy morning inscribing amulets, when a woman in a red palla poked her head in and asked if Hisdadukh the amulet scribe was available.
“I’m sorry,” I replied. “Morning was the only propitious time for inscribing amulets today. I’m occupied tomorrow, and Third Day is inauspicious. Can you come back on Fifth Day?”
She stared at me so long I began to feel my scalp tingle. Then she abruptly left, muttering that Fifth Day was far too long to wait.
Yochani rushed in moments later. “There was a woman on the road outside, wearing a red palla and walking with a limp.” There was fear in her eyes as she asked me, “Was she here?”
“She just left. Why do you ask?”
“What did she want?” Her voice rose in alarm.
Yochani’s anxiety made my throat constrict. “She asked me about amulets, but I told her it was too late for me to inscribe one today.”
Yochani sank down at the table and put her head in her hands. Then she jumped up, her eyes wide with fright. “Start packing your things, we’re leaving for Tiberias immediately.”
“That’s impossible. Yehudit just went to sleep.”
“Wake her as soon as you’re ready—we need to get there before dark.”
“What is the matter?” I demanded. “What are you afraid of?”
Yochani turned to face me. “That woman, the one with the limp who asked you about amulets, is Sepphoris’s kashafa.” She began to pace the room. “I knew there’d be trouble if your amulets were too popular, and now that she knows who you are and where you live, it’s come.”
“But she can’t curse me,” I protested, trying to stay calm. “She doesn’t know my mother’s name.”
“She knows mine, she knows your daughter’s, and she’s probably wheedled yours out of your slaves.” Yochani pushed me toward the kiton. “No more discussion. We’re going.”
Yochani’s fear was contagious. I couldn’t forget how the kashafa had stared at me through her narrowed lids. She didn’t need to know my mother’s name to give me the Evil Eye, and the terror in the pit of my belly came with the certainty that she’d just done exactly that.
We were still loading the mules when Julia raced into the courtyard. She saw our packed belongings and burst into tears. “Thank Heaven you’re leaving. I don’t care where you’re going—take my children and me with you. Please.”
Yochani looked at her in disbelief. “Why? What happened?”
“Soldiers came to church this morning and arrested everyone. They let me go when I made a sacrifice, but Claudia refused. I don’t think she cares about living anymore, now that her husband is dead.”
“Oh no,” I gasped.
“They took her and her children away.” Julia was weeping so hard she could scarcely get the words out. “Unless she agrees to sacrifice publicly, which I know she won’t, they will all be killed.”
I was livid at Claudia. It was one thing to martyr herself, but to condemn her innocent young children to such a horrific death was beyond evil. But, then, she believed that her faith would grant them all eternal life, I thought bitterly.
Yochani took Julia’s hand and squeezed it. “If you want to come with us to Tiberias, be back here with your children as soon as you can. I’ll go hire another mule.”
Not even the leatherworker’s family was informed where we were going, and Yochani, who knew where the kashafa lived, made us avoid that entire quarter as we fled. Even after Sepphoris was far behind us, I kept looking back, afraid to imagine what or who might be pursuing us. It was dark when we dismounted in Eliezer’s courtyard, and hours later when I finally fell asleep.
I kept telling myself there was no need to fear the kashafa back in Sepphoris. The pious rabbis in Tiberias would provide protection to one of their own. But in any case, with the war essentially over, Yehudit and I would soon be on our way home to Sura. In the dark room I wished I could stop running away from my troubles. Trying to escape Abba had sent me to the West. Now this kashafa, along with Salaman and Zeira—I realized with sudden insight—had me fleeing in the opposite direction.
We told no one what had prompted our sudden visit, and the first week in Tiberias passed without incident. Rav Zeira, of course, was delighted to see me. He attended synagogue with me every day and, taking advantage of his popularity with the local scholars, had the two of us dining at a different rabbi’s table nearly every meal.
I learned that he had not always been so hunched over and swarthy. Among his numerous fasts, he’d undergone a hundred to make him resistant to the fires of Gehenna. Then, every month he would test this by sitting inside a lit oven, which had no effect on him. But one day, the rabbis—he didn’t know which ones—gave him the Evil Eye, so the oven’s fire blackened his skin and prevented him from standing upright.
The more I considered Zeira’s strange story, the more I found his exaggerated piety offensive. Most scholars thought holiness should be a private matter, not something to boast about. So I kept my Torah knowledge to myself. While I heard a good many Baraitot at these meals, and continued to review Mishna at night, I neither entered the scholars’ discussions nor made any indication that I appreciated them.
But my days were not entirely taken up by a parade of rabbinic scholarship. Yehudit, who was growing up before my eyes, had reached the point in her learning where she not only questioned me about the Israelites in the Torah but about Elohim as well. Her innocent inquiries were not always easy to answer, but I was exceedingly pleased that her memory seemed to be every bit as good as mine.
Yet the maturity that allowed her to learn Torah meant that she often preferred the company of Julia’s daughter, leaving me aching for the days when I was her entire world. So together we all frequented the hot springs at Hammat, and when the weather was nice, we watched the birds migrating through the Hula valley. It was an activity the girls especially enjoyed.
Except when we were again attacked by mosquitoes.
This trip to the swamplands started like all the others. Mounted on mules, Julia and I headed north along the lake until it became a marsh. The air was warm and humid, and filled with sounds of croaking frogs and humming insects. When we reached a trail that led to one of the prime viewing spots, we tied up the animals and walked quietly toward the water,
careful not to disturb the birds.
Mosquitoes were a common annoyance, so we always anointed ourselves with a special oil that Eliezer’s wife said repelled them. But this time, immediately after turning a corner, we were engulfed by a horde of them. They were under my clothes and in my eyes, their furious buzzing like millions of tiny screams. In an instant even the smallest piece of exposed skin was covered with them.
The oil was plainly ineffective, so I grabbed Yehudit and ran for where we left the mules, Nurse right behind me. Julia did the same, carrying the baby herself while her nurse picked up her terrified daughter. The mosquitoes still swarmed us, and with one arm holding Yehudit, my efforts to swat them away were futile. My skin was under assault, a thousand tiny pinpricks, and Yehudit was crying with a pain and terror that I could do nothing to soothe. Finally the mules came into sight, and I practically threw her on Nurse’s lap as I climbed on, and then we were away.
By the time we reached home, we were covered in angry pink welts. Yochani and her daughter-in-law plastered us with salves and poultices, and a few days later the awful itching was gone.
Nobody suggested returning to see the birds again.
Less than a week later, after we’d been there a month, Eliezer’s house was starting to feel crowded. Hospitality being such a Jewish virtue, neither he nor his wife would dream of asking us to leave. Yet I could feel the tension growing and was thankful when Julia broached the subject.
“I very much appreciate your hosting me and my children, especially at such short notice,” she told them. “But I just realized that we left without telling anyone, which means that when my husband comes back from the East, he won’t know where we’ve gone.”
“You think you’ll be safe there now?” Yochani asked.
“I’ve heard that most persecutions are occurring in Caesarea,” she replied. “But even so, I’ll be sure to stay far away from any churches in Sepphoris.”
Suddenly I realized something important. “Ha-Elohim! I also need to go back to Sepphoris. My brother Tachlifa would be able to travel this winter, and he’d be sure to come looking for me.”
