Transgression Page 7

  What kind of reality had she fallen into? It was more real than that silly virtual reality thing she had been playing. And yet it was unreal. The Temple as she saw it now had not existed for more than nineteen hundred years. Was it some grand illusion?

  Rivka could think of only one explanation. Ari’s theory of time machines, or timelike self-intersecting loops, or whatever they were called, had worked. Raw joy welled up in her heart at that. He had earned his Nobel prize.

  The explanation seemed reasonable, but it raised a disturbing question. If there were a wormhole in the lab, why hadn’t Dr. West warned her about it? She was going to ask him some hard questions as soon as she went back.

  Not right away, of course. The way back to the wormhole led past an attacker. She would have to wait awhile before she felt safe going back. Anyway, she wanted to do a little sight-seeing first. It wasn’t every day you walked into a different millennium. It wasn’t every day you came within an eyelash of getting…

  Rivka shivered. Her knee throbbed painfully from the fall she had taken. She looked at it again. A long trickle of blood ran down her shin from her knee. She needed some water to wash it off.

  She turned and began walking south. Within a hundred yards, she spotted a campground off to her left on the slopes of the Mount of Olives. The last time she had visited here, she had seen a church. Now, black goatskin tents sprawled everywhere, seemingly placed at random. Dozens of children raced among them, screaming while they played a game of tag. As she came nearer, they all seemed to spot her at once. For a moment they simply stared.

  Then they disappeared.

  Rivka kept walking, hoping to get past without incident.

  Suddenly, a score of women emerged from the tent city. They wore modest neck-to-toe garments, somewhat like Bedouin women—but different. One of them shouted at Rivka. Then all of them shook their fists and screamed.

  Rivka turned and ran. It had to be Aramaic they were speaking. It definitely wasn’t Hebrew, either modern or biblical. She had never heard Aramaic spoken, but she had read plenty. The consonants she had heard seemed to be fairly close to modern Hebrew, though the vowels were inflected in Aramaic patterns. She hadn’t quite caught what the women said, but one word stuck in her ears. It kept rattling around now inside her head. Zonah.

  Whore.

  Assuming she really had gone back in time, one point had just become exceedingly clear. She hadn’t dressed appropriately for this party.

  * * *

  Damien

  Damien carefully packed the pistol into his duffel bag and zipped it shut. Almost ready. He was sweating now, partly in nervous anticipation, partly because he had been rushing around the lab for the last fifteen minutes. Only two things left to do. He opened a file on his laptop, printed it to the laser printer down the hall, then trotted out the door and down to the printer. No good to have curious eyes reading his chronology of Paul’s last visit to Jerusalem.

  Seconds later, he rushed back into the lab, fuming. The blasted laser printer was out of paper, as he ought to have known. He checked the queues of all the printers in the building. One on the second floor was ready. He printed the document and then dashed out to get the copy. When he returned with the paper, he stuffed it into the pocket of his bag and closed the lid on the laptop.

  Now only one task remained. Damien strode to his desk and pulled out an Arab costume. He figured that if he were going into the first century, he had better be dressed to fit in. This was the closest thing he had been able to come up with. He pulled the caftan over his head and down his body, plopped the kaffiyeh on his head, stepped out of his Reeboks, and slipped on the sandals. Not perfect, probably, but it would do him until he could buy more clothes. He had packed plenty of gold and silver—enough to last a lifetime. Which was important, because he wasn’t coming back. If his plan worked, there would be nothing to come back to.

  He slipped his Reeboks into the duffel bag, shouldered it, stepped to the computer, set the delay for sixty minutes, and clicked the mouse on the Shutdown Wormhole button.

  Then he stepped back and smiled. Almost irrevocable now. The wormhole would collapse in an hour. The delay would give him time to come back if he hit any immediate problems. He didn’t expect any, but it never hurt to have a fail-safe. He took a last sip of his coffee, marched to the wormhole doorway, and opened it. The empty void didn’t spook him now. Rivka had proved it safe. He looked back at the lab for just a moment. The words of a song from the sixties popped into his head. Stop the world—I want to get off!

  Damien stepped through the doorway and pulled the door shut. In an hour, the wormhole would collapse down to the Planck diameter, too tiny to imagine. If Rivka didn’t get back before then, she wouldn’t get back at all. Tough luck.

  He strode forward through the wormhole and into the cave, smiling. He had a wonderful past ahead of him.

  * * *

  Rivka

  Rivka walked rapidly down the road toward the southeast corner of the city. Straight ahead, beyond the Hinnom Valley, a forest of Jerusalem pines shimmered in the sunlight. To her left, the Mount of Olives rose, minus the thousands of tombs she had seen last time she was here. And to her right, the city of her dreams, the city of a thousand songs. Yerushalayim shel zahav. Jerusalem the Golden. Her pulse hammered with excitement.

  Soon the road intersected with a much busier one coming from the south. Rivka marched into the foot traffic, hungry to reach the city.

  Children dashed in and out among the adults, screeching in Aramaic. Women walked more sedately, baskets balanced perfectly atop their heads. All of them were as modestly dressed as the Iranian women Rivka had seen on TV. Even their hair was covered. She felt their disapproving stares burning holes in her T-shirt. She ignored the men who turned to goggle at her.

  Ari’s wormhole idea had worked. Unbelievable! The evidence surrounded her, pummeling her senses, and yet she almost refused to accept it. Was it tied in to the Avatar game somehow? No, that had to be a red herring. Computers were powerful, but they couldn’t warp time. Only a wormhole could have brought her to this place, or rather this time—whenever it was.

  But first things first. Rivka needed to wash the bleeding gash on her knee. After that, she would try to find some clothes that would help her fit in better. She absolutely had to look around at the sights. This place was just…stupendous. As soon as she got herself presentable, she would be homing in on the Temple Mount.

  She would go back to Ari’s wormhole later and get Dov and Jessica and bring them here. They would just freak when they saw this place. But she wanted to get a good look around first before she went back. And she didn’t dare go near that cave for a while yet.

  As soon as she passed through the city gates, she saw what she needed—the Pool of Siloam. It lay right where the maps showed it, fifty yards inside the city. Rivka headed straight for it.

  The pool was surrounded by a stone wall, with a gate at the west end. Rivka ducked inside the gate and scanned the area. A number of modestly dressed young women stood around the walls, holding clay jars and chatting idly. Every one of them had perfect posture—heads, shoulders, hips, and heels in a straight line. Self-conscious, Rivka stood a little straighter. She guessed that these were servants of the rich, or daughters of the poor, or hired laborers.

  The women quickly noticed her, and the chatter around the pool hushed. Rivka gave an uncertain smile and stepped toward the pool. Edged with stone, it looked much like a swimming pool. The north end opened into a cave, the famous tunnel built by King Hezekiah. The tunnel carried water from a hidden spring outside the city, enabling the city to withstand a siege by the Assyrian king Sennacherib in 701 B.C.

  Rivka dipped her hands into the pool and scooped up some water onto her bleeding knee. The cool liquid stung her raw flesh. Rivka gritted her teeth and poured more water on it.

  “What happened, little sister?” The question, in Aramaic, came from directly behind her.

  Rivka turned aroun
d. A slim, beautiful young woman stood there, concern in her eyes. She stood a couple of inches taller than Rivka and looked to be about twenty-five. She wore a loose, boxy tunic of unbleached wool and her hair was completely hidden by a cloth covering.

  “I fell,” Rivka said, choosing her words carefully and speaking slowly. She had never actually spoken Aramaic before. She had only read it. “A man chased me.”

  The young woman nodded. “You are lucky twenty men did not chase you, dressed like that. You are new at this, are you not?”

  That was putting it mildly. “Yes, I’m new. My name is Rivka.”

  “My name is called Hana,” said the woman.

  Rivka noted the idiom. Next time, she would say, My name is called Rivka.

  Hana turned around and shook a fist at the other young women staring at them. “So what is there to look at?” she shouted. “I will take care of little sister here. Mind your own business, all of you. And I am next—understand?”

  Hana must be some sort of a leader here. The other young women instantly averted their eyes from Rivka and formed into little clusters of animated gossip.

  Hana led Rivka toward the wall nearest the entrance. Together, they stood in the shade, out of the mid-morning sun. “The first thing you need is some decent clothes,” Hana said. “That was very foolish, wearing those. Where did you get them?” She fingered the blue denim of Rivka’s cutoffs. “What do you call these?”

  Rivka grinned and told the truth. “Levis 501 jeans.”

  Hana stared at her. “Levites what?”

  A man walked in through the gate. He had a thick gray beard, a well-cut linen tunic, and the posture of a man used to giving orders. At once, all the girls around the pool stopped chattering and turned to look at him. One of them started forward. Hana snapped her fingers at the girl, shook her head hard, picked up a clay water vessel, and strode toward the man.

  “Adoni, do you wish me to carry water for you?”

  Adoni, Rivka noted. When you addressed a man in this culture, you called him Adoni. Sir.

  The man’s eyes swept over Hana in a way that sent shivers down Rivka’s back. Then his gaze fell on Rivka, and he pointed at her. “You. I want you to carry water.”

  Rivka felt a rush of panic in her belly. She had no vessel, nor any practice in carrying a jar on her head.

  Hana intervened. “Adoni, my little sister is unclean this week. Please allow me.”

  “How much?” the man asked.

  Rivka hadn’t expected that. But of course! In any primitive culture you negotiated everything.

  “Two dinars,” Hana said.

  Rivka’s eyes nearly popped out. Two days’ wages, just to carry water? Hana had made a ridiculous offer.

  The man shook his head in apparent disbelief. “Two dinars? For that, you should carry me and not my water only.”

  “Very well, Adoni,” Hana said.

  “One dinar,” said the man.

  Rivka blinked. What was going on here?

  “Two,” Hana said, her voice taking on a stubborn note. “And I will carry two vessels of water.”

  A slow smile spread over the man’s face. “Two. Very well,” he said. “Follow me.” He turned and walked out into the street.

  Hana stepped to the pool and lowered her clay vessel into the pool. With a quick, smooth motion, she lifted it atop her head and strode out into the street. “Come with me, little sister.”

  Rivka hurried to catch up with her, wondering why Hana had promised two vessels of water when she could carry only one at a time. Why not ask one of the other girls to carry one? Was she going to come back? And why the outrageous price?

  The man had stopped at a small shop thirty paces up the street, looking at something. Hana walked past him without stopping or speaking.

  Rivka stared at him as they passed.

  “Do not look, little sister,” Hana hissed. “Have you no manners? A woman does not speak to a man in the street.” Her voice had the tone adults used when talking to children.

  “Would you mind explaining what this is all about?” Rivka asked. “And how do you know the way unless he leads?”

  Hana said nothing. With quick steps, she sliced through the crowded street, walking at a pace that soon had Rivka trotting to keep up. Rivka looked back once, but a sharp intake of breath from Hana stopped her. They headed uphill toward the Temple Mount. After a couple of hundred yards, Hana suddenly turned right onto a tiny side street that wound its way through a thicket of one-story stone buildings. They took a couple of turns, then stopped. Hana withdrew a large iron key from the cloth belt at her waist. She inserted it into the lock of the front door, turned it a quarter turn and pulled back. The latch clicked open. She reversed the procedure to withdraw the key. A stone bench with no back huddled against the outside of the building.

  Hana pointed at it. “You will sit there and wait, little sister. If anyone troubles you, shout loudly.”

  Rivka sat, thoroughly puzzled.

  Hana pushed open the door and stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. A few minutes later, the man arrived. He leered at Rivka for just a moment and then went inside. The door clicked shut behind him.

  A horrible thought suddenly formed in Rivka’s mind. Shortly, she heard voices through the narrow window slits above her head, and she knew.

  Rivka leaned forward and put her head in her hands. So. Hana was a zonah. Now everything made sense—the odd negotiation, the high price, Hana leading instead of following. It was all a ritual. In San Diego, men stopped hookers on the street and asked if they were “dating,” a precaution against the vice squad. In Jerusalem, men hired women to “carry water.”

  Rivka felt a mix of pity and anger. She tried to ignore the sounds she heard from within the house. Very soon, it was over. She felt a rush of relief. Now she just wanted the man to go away.

  “You promised twice.” The man’s voice floated through the window slits.

  “Just wait a little, Adoni,” said Hana.

  Rivka stood up and walked a little way up the street. She couldn’t bear to hear any more. She wanted to scream. What had driven Hana to this? A man came down the street toward Rivka, leering at her. She scowled at him fiercely and retreated to stand in Hana’s doorway until he passed.

  She paced back and forth in the street, clenching and unclenching her fists. She didn’t know Hana very well, but she liked her already. Didn’t Hana deserve something better than the life of a zonah?

  * * *

  Rivka

  After the man finished his business and left, Hana fetched Rivka inside and then went off somewhere on a mysterious errand, warning her sternly not to go outside until she returned.

  Rivka passed the time by studying the construction of Hana’s house—a classic barrel-vaulted stone house with one room that served as kitchen, bedroom, and living room, all in an area smaller than the master bedroom of Rivka’s home in San Diego. Incredible! What an opportunity for an archaeologist!

  A key scraped in the lock.

  Rivka jumped.

  Hana opened the door. “I have bought some cloth to make clothes for you.” She dumped the material on the dirt floor. It was the same sort of unbleached wool that she wore herself. “Do you know how to sew?”

  Rivka didn’t know what to say. She could sew well enough—with a sewing machine. But with bone needles? “I’m not sure.”

  “Why are you so helpless, little sister?” Hana studied her with pity. “Where do you come from?”

  Rivka shrugged. “From a far country, where the customs are strange.”

  “Are you a widow?” Hana asked. “Or were you a slave? How did you become a zonah?” She asked this in a matter-of-fact tone, as if she were asking what Rivka had eaten for breakfast.

  “I…well, I’m not really a zonah,” Rivka said.

  “Oh.” Hana simply stared at her.

  “Is something wrong?” Rivka asked.

  “You walk in the streets half-naked, you leave your hair visi
ble to all, you shamelessly look men in the eyes, and yet you seem surprised that a man chased you. Now you claim you are not a zonah. Why do your actions not match your words?”

  Rivka closed her eyes. Her head was beginning to ache. “I’m just…confused. I think I want to go home.”

  “You must not go outside dressed like that,” Hana said. “And you said you come from a far country. Do you have money to travel? If so, then you should pay me for this cloth. It cost me more than a dinar.”

  Rivka shook her head. She had left her wallet in her backpack—back in Ari’s lab. And anyway, what good would her modern shekels and her Visa card do here? “I don’t have any money.”

  “Then you cannot travel,” Hana said. “How do you plan to live? You do not know how to sew. Can you carry water? Your back is not straight, and you do not stand as a water carrier should. Did your mother teach you nothing? Do you plan to beg for your bread? You cannot; you are not ugly. You would earn many dinars as a zonah. I will teach you how you must behave so you will not be stoned. You will stay with me tonight, yes?”

  “Yes,” Rivka immediately answered. Then she realized that long before tonight, she ought to go back to the wormhole.

  Hana cocked her head as though listening. “You are lying,” she said. “And yet you meant to tell the truth.” She shrugged and set to work. “You are a very strange person, Rivka. But you are in danger so long as you walk in the streets without proper clothing. Now be quiet, so I can think how to make you a tunic. Then you can explain why you do not wish to stay with me tonight.”

  Rivka sat quietly and watched.

  Hana cut the cloth with iron shears into the boxy pattern she wore herself. It looked a lot like the illustration Rivka had seen in the margin of the Steinsaltz edition of the Talmud.