Enchantress: A Novel of Rav Hisda's Daughter (27 page)

I chuckled. “Ah yes, the bread in your basket.”

We went on in this fashion, ostensibly discussing the meal, but increasingly there were long lapses in our conversation as we gazed at each other. I watched his hands as he brought food to his mouth, wondering if his touch would be gentle or firm, confident or shy. Surely Rava was imagining what would happen as well. Finally the musicians broke into a fanfare. It was time for me to retire to the bridal chamber and for Rava to seclude himself with the men.

When he grimaced at his impending ordeal, I whispered into his ear, “You won’t have to endure their teasing for long. I’ll be ready as soon as I can.”

 • • • 

While getting me out of my wedding clothes and into my nightdress was accomplished easily, taking my hair down was not. The faster Leuton worked to get my hair loose, the more difficulty she had. When I tried to help her, we only slowed each other more.

Just when I thought we were almost done, I heard Rava call out, “I’ve had enough waiting. My bride is not a timid virgin who needs time for her mother to prepare her properly.” Before I could finish undoing the braid I was struggling with, he pulled the curtain aside and strode in.

His eyes widened as he stared at me, and I realized that between my sheer nightdress and the lamp burning behind me, my naked form must be clearly visible. He gestured to Leuton and ordered, “Leave us.”

My slave fled out the door to the courtyard rather than attempt to pass by Rava. His gaze traveled from my head to my feet, and the lustful expression this provoked made my desire flare. In a moment, hair forgotten, I was in his arms. His lips, hungry for mine, did not confine themselves to there but eagerly traversed my cheeks, ears, and neck, while I returned his kisses with equal fervor. He tasted delicious, a combination of duck and peaches, and when I nipped his ears I could smell his new hair oil.

Between a frenzy of kissing, Rava stripped off his tunic and blew out the lamp. Under the cover of darkness, I slipped out of my nightdress while he removed his trousers and girdle. Nothing impeded us as we sought each other’s embrace and sank down onto the bed.

This was nothing like my previous wedding night. Then Rami had been too shy and nervous to harden, no matter how much kissing and embracing we did, and I was too innocent to know how to arouse him. Rava’s hands and mouth moved hungrily over my torso, while I ran my fingers down his back. The fire between my legs was blazing so hot that without a conscious effort, I pulled him close and began to rotate my hips against him. He groaned softly, and I could feel his member, hard and big as a club, pressing against my belly as he rolled on top of me.

Instinctively I spread my legs, but instead of entering immediately, Rava fumbled to bring his hand to his mouth. My puzzlement lasted only an instant, as he reached down below in what I realized was an attempt to lubricate his member.

“You don’t need to do that,” I whispered, as I brought his hand down to the damp opening of my womb. “I am ready for you.”

I expected him to enter by thrusting rapidly and vigorously, but instead he slid in slowly, almost cautiously, until he was fully sheathed. Then he continued in that same controlled, careful fashion. There was no question that he was significantly larger than Rami, and there was something both exciting and frustrating about how leisurely he moved. The furnace between my thighs was being stoked just slightly higher and higher, and I knew my release would come the instant he quickened his pace.

But then, without warning, he let out a strangled moan and collapsed on top of me. Before I could comprehend what had happened, he pulled out and turned over so his back was toward me.

No! my mind silently shrieked. My body was on fire, and the only remedy to quench it had been stolen away. How could this be happening? How could Rava abandon me to this torment? No wonder Choran had come to hate him, if every time they used the bed he left her so achingly frustrated.

SIXTEEN

I
lay there for a while, hoping my passion would cool so I could sleep, but it proved useless. I was about to reach down and use my fingers to gain relief, but desperation took over and recalling Mother’s advice to be direct with Rava, I stretched out and placed my hand on his now flaccid member.

He groaned softly and turned on his back. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice heavy with fatigue.

“We’re not finished.” I let my hand gently caress him and was rewarded with some stiffening. “I haven’t emitted seed yet.”

Thankfully, he didn’t protest, and in less time than I thought possible I judged him sufficiently hardened to proceed. “Control your
yetzer hara
,” I whispered as he entered. “Be like the mighty men of Ulam who restrained themselves on their wives’ bellies.”

Again he moved at that deliberate pace, and soon my fire was not only rekindled but blazing hotter than before. This time I told him what I needed. “Faster, stronger,” I begged him, until rapture finally overwhelmed me and became so unbearable that I squeezed my legs around his hips, forcing him to halt.

I expected that he would withdraw once my breathing calmed, but instead he remained inside me and asked, “So that is what occurs when you emit seed?” Then, when I answered in the affirmative, he said plaintively, “But I have not yet emitted mine this time.”

I let my legs urge him forward. “Then continue.”

I never would have imagined this could happen, but I was able to climax three more times before Rava emitted his seed again. I didn’t want our intimacy to end. So when he turned over to sleep, I asked him to face my back and put his arm around me instead. Thus we could rest against each other like two spoons.

“But, Dodi.” For the first time he called me by a more familiar name—Dodi being the Hebrew word for “beloved,” from the Song of Songs.

“Yes.” Rami had called me Dodi too, and Salaman had wanted to. I liked Rava using it now.

“If I lie pressed up against you like this”—there was no doubt which portion of his anatomy he meant—“I will get aroused again during the night and won’t be able to sleep.”

I gave his hand a quick squeeze. “Be sure to wake me then.”

 • • • 

Rava’s concern indeed proved legitimate later that night, and I fell back to sleep looking forward to a leisurely morning using the bed. But when I woke just before dawn, his place beside me was empty. I pulled the bed curtains aside and saw no one. The chamber pot was still empty, so he was probably using the privy. But what if he were on his way to immerse in the canal? That would mean he didn’t expect to use the bed again today.

In a panic, I jumped up and peeked out the door, where Leuton was stretched out sound asleep. “Leuton, wake up.” I nudged her with my foot.

“What’s the matter, mistress?”

“My husband is gone. Go find him and bring him back here. If he’s in the privy, wait for him, but under no circumstances is he to immerse.” I put on my nightdress and paced the small room until Rava stepped inside.

“What’s . . . wrong?” He asked between breaths. Judging by his panting, he had run back from wherever Leuton had found him.

I motioned to Leuton to remain outside and stood so close to Rava that we were almost, but not quite, touching. “Have you tired of me already?” I asked. “Is that why you are so eager to use the
mikvah
?”

“Heaven forbid I should tire of you. But they will expect me to say words of Torah and I wanted privacy.”

I reached out and ran my fingers through his hair, pulling his head down toward mine. “Must you immerse so soon? Surely no one will expect you before the midday meal.”

“Am I mistaken about last night, Dodi? Are you still unsatisfied?”

I smiled up at him. “Just because I feasted last night does not mean I won’t be hungry today.”

During this short conversation, our eyes remained locked and the distance between his lips and mine had closed to the point where they almost touched. There was no need to say anything more to seduce him, for he put his arms around me and we kissed.

It wasn’t long until both our hungers were sated, at least temporarily. Rava made no attempt to get up from the bed when we finished, and as I nestled with my head on his shoulder, I said, “I understand your need for purity, but the canal water is so cold at this time of year. Can you not wash with nine
kavim
of water, which the kitchen slaves will warm for you? I don’t want you to become chilled.”

“Nine
kavim
is for those who are lenient in such matters.”

“Can you not be lenient with yourself during our wedding week?” I asked. “Surely you know the Baraita that teaches a
baal keri
upon whom nine
kavim
are poured is pure. Rabbi Akiva whispered it to Ben Azzai, who taught it in the marketplace.”

“Yes.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Ben Azzai taught this openly because he thought requiring full immersion would cause neglect of procreation, but Rabbi Akiva did not publicize the leniency, in order to keep Torah scholars from being on their wives like roosters.”

“Perhaps I want my husband to be like a rooster.” I let my hand drift down his chest toward his belly. “Rabbi Yehuda ben Beteira teaches that words of Torah do not contract impurity
,
and thus a
baal keri
needn’t immerse at all before studying or teaching?”

“I do not follow Rabbi Yehuda ben Beteira,” Rava declared. Then his voice softened. “But I have heard that Rav Nachman provides jars of nine
kavim
for his students.”

“Considering that you have not yet fulfilled the mitzvah of procreation, shouldn’t you follow him?” I allowed my fingers to wander quite close to, but not actually touch, his member.

He rolled on his side and pulled me close. “I think we should stop talking about procreation and attempt to accomplish it instead.”

 • • • 

I admit that I expected all the praise I’d heard about Machoza, located on the west bank of the Tigris and linked by bridge to the Persian capital city of Ctesiphon on the east, to be exaggerated. I’d been in big cities in Bavel and Eretz Israel, so I was not some peasant easily impressed by a few tall buildings. After all, Ctesiphon was not an ancient city like Pumbedita or Sura; King Shapur had built it less than a hundred years ago. And Machoza was merely its suburb.

But I was wrong.

As we traveled east on the Nehar Malka, I could see that the land was crisscrossed with tributaries and canals that shunted water from the Tigris and Euphrates to irrigate the vast fertile plain between them. Everywhere I looked, the soil was under cultivation. There were fields of wheat, barley, and flax, plus date groves, orchards, and vineyards. Villages were strung out along the waterways like pearls on a necklace, their large and well-kept residences proclaiming their prosperity. The buildings became larger as we approached the capital, which was manifest even at a distance by the enormous wall surrounding it. At the docks, Rava merely had to mention Gidel’s name for us to be inundated by porters.

Though we were officially staying with Rava’s brother, Seoram, over the next few weeks we spent little time there. Most of our days involved inspecting Rava’s property with Efra, whose broken nose and missing tooth gave his visage a fierceness that intimidated me until I heard his submissive voice. However, we often enjoyed meals with Gidel and Rav Nachman, both of whom were keen to ensure my husband’s future.

Gidel’s wife, Shalom, arranged for the two of us to go shopping. “No woman should spend all her time on business,” she insisted. “Not when the world’s greatest marketplace lies open before her.”

“It must be quite a sight,” I said, my curiosity aroused.

Like Sura’s or Pumbedita’s souk, it was crowded with people, carts, and donkeys, assaulting the nose with a jumble of mostly unpleasant odors and the ears with a cacophony of merchants shouting out their wares or at each other. I had judged Shalom’s outfit too rich for shopping, but apparently this was the norm for Machozean women. When we passed into the section with expensive goods, where shoppers were beautifully dressed and coiffed and Persian soldiers patrolled the roads, I was glad for my companion’s fine appearance.

Several streets were occupied by merchants who sold items from foreign lands—glass cups and vases from Rome; white ivory from Africa; oak galls from the North for making ink; and woven carpets from the East. A large tent devoted to textiles displayed not only exquisite silks and fine linens but also uncommon fabrics like damask brocade, white cotton, and woolen felt.

“My mother weaves finer linen for half that price in Sura,” I challenged a cloth merchant.

“You are in Ctesiphon now, not in the provinces,” he retorted, seemingly indifferent to making a sale.

I took a special interest in the herb sellers, and though I saw monkshood, wolfsbane, and other medicinal plants that Em kept in her storeroom, as well as frankincense and orpiment, no one was selling the root she used to make the sterility potion. At least not openly. Then we came to a cage of lion cubs.