Enchantress: A Novel of Rav Hisda's Daughter (28 page)

Shalom gave a small scream and waved her hand to ward them away. “Good Heaven. Who would want to buy a lion?”

I recalled how Rava had been unable to cast the love spell from
Sepher ha-Razim
because he couldn’t obtain lion’s blood and knew exactly who would want to buy one. But I feigned ignorance.

My nose alerted me to the perfumers’ street more than a block away, and I realized this was a chance to resupply my dwindling stock of labdanum. Unfortunately the fragrance I wanted seemed to be in short supply.

“Labdanum is not a scent that well-bred and sophisticated women wear,” the third perfumer we consulted advised before directing us to another shop nearby.

“My husband likes labdanum,” I told the next perfumer. “I wore it in our bridal chamber.”

He smiled conspiratorially. “Well then, we mustn’t disappoint him.”

He brought out several samples, and once the bargaining began, it became evident why most perfumers in this souk didn’t sell it. Labdanum was significantly less costly than other fragrances.

“You won’t impress other women with such an inexpensive scent,” Shalom warned me after I bought what I needed. Then she smiled. “But of course it is more important to please Rava.”

 • • • 

At night Rava was no less diligent in using the bed than he’d been in Sura. In addition to performing the positive mitzvah of procreation, he wanted to be careful not to violate the negative commandment of not diminishing a wife’s
onah
—her conjugal rights. A Mishna in Ketubot set out this obligation for men of various professions. For a
tayalin
, which Rava defined as a scholar whose wife lives with him, it was every day.

Rami had also lain with me daily, both to perform the mitzvah and for our pleasure. Otherwise, my two husbands had quite different attitudes toward what Rava called “the mitzvah act.” Rami had appreciated my heightened excitement less for the sake of producing worthy children, which he assumed would come along, than for the way it increased his own enjoyment. By trial and error he’d discovered what aroused me best, sometimes finding methods I would not have expected to have that effect.

Rava, careful to avoid any blunder, found it simpler and equally successful to ask me what I wanted and what felt best, trying one approach versus another until I was wild with desire. But the biggest disparity was that using the bed with Rami involved a levity that Rava utterly lacked. Instead, Rava had an earnest devotion that I found equally endearing.

The night before we left for Pumbedita, I was too elated to sleep. I had last become
niddah
in Sura, more than five weeks before, so I had to be pregnant. Our timing couldn’t be better. When we returned to Pumbedita, people would assume I had visited the
mikvah
in Machoza, assuring me another month before anyone (other than Rava) became aware of my condition and, envious of my quick fertility, provoked the Evil Eye.

Since I was awake, I got up to use the chamber pot. When I returned, I was startled to see Rava watching me. His expression was inscrutable.

I sat down and put my arm around his waist. “Is anything the matter?”

He shook his head. “Dodi, this last month you have given me joy greater than I could have imagined. Waking up and finding you in my bed seems like a miracle.”

It was also a miracle for me. “But . . .” I continued for him.

“During my stay with Rav Hamnuna, I learned that he too is a student of the secret Torah. So I would appreciate spending Pesach in Sura this year and perhaps returning earlier in the summer as well.”

“It would be my pleasure.” By spring my pregnancy would be sufficiently visible that my very presence would announce it to my family, and of course I would want to give birth there. I took a deep breath, for this seemed an ideal time to inform Rava.

“Abba, I assume you’ve noticed that I haven’t become
niddah
since our wedding.”

He was silent for some time before saying, “You called me Abba.” His voice was exultant.

I chuckled at his response. “That is your name.”

“You’re certain, Dodi?”

“Absolutely.” I had no doubt that I was pregnant.

“When will the child be born?”

“In early Elul, I expect.”

He was silent again for so long I almost thought he’d fallen asleep. “I never expected that you would become pregnant so fast.” His voice was filled with awe. “My father was right about my being too busy with a new son to visit his grave next Rosh Hashanah.”

 • • • 

I was back in Pumbedita for a month before Em asked me to assist at a difficult birth. When I informed her of my condition, she hugged me fervently and promised to keep me far away from any such dangerous situations. Heaven forbid I should become the target of any liliths lurking in a birthing chamber.

Homa discerned my secret as well. One morning when I felt too nauseous to eat anything more than day-old bread, she kissed my cheek and whispered, “I thought it interesting that Rava continues to use the
mikvah
every morning while you haven’t gone at all since your return.”

I blushed and nodded. “I’m surprised he hasn’t told Abaye.”

I soon realized why he’d told no one of my pregnancy. Less than a month later, as we were taking our customary Shabbat walk, Rava began to hesitate and then stumble over his words before trailing off. This was so unlike his usual manner that I stopped and faced him. “Something is bothering you. What is it?”

His faced colored as he managed to look both embarrassed and miserable. “Dodi . . . I hate to tell you this.” He paused and sighed. “But the rabbis and their students . . . are gossiping about you . . . that the reason you conceived so easily . . . despite all your years of widowhood . . .”

Rava did not need to finish, for I knew what he meant. Everyone believed that the longer a woman went without using the bed, the greater her likelihood of becoming barren. “They believe we were intimate before the wedding?” I asked.

He sighed again. “Not us. They say you were unchaste . . . something about an
am-ha’aretz
in the West.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Absolutely not,” he replied vehemently. “But it infuriates me, and pains me, to hear you slandered.”

I knew what to say. “Tell them I was thinking of you all those years, that I was waiting for you.” I let my seductive tone suggest that those thoughts had been erotic ones.

“Of course you were.” A hint of a smile played on his lips. “After all, everyone knows you’ve wanted to marry me since you were a child.”

I never learned whether this satisfied Rava’s colleagues or not, for everyone in Pumbedita was soon distracted by Persian politics. To our astonishment, King Narseh was abdicating in favor of his son Hormizd II. True, Narseh was an old man, but no Persian king, or Roman emperor, for that matter, had ever given up his throne during his lifetime. There was much speculation about Narseh’s health, or lack of it, but general agreement was that since Hormizd was Narseh’s only son, it was a prudent move to settle the succession before the five noble houses tried to advance their own candidates.

 • • • 

As Rava wished, we returned to Sura at the start of summer. Once the full moon of Elul was past, I kept alert to any sign of impending labor. I felt my first contraction as Rava, along with Father and his students, prepared to leave for the
beit din
, but I forced myself to remain calm. I bid Rava a good day in court, while inside I prayed that I could keep from crying out until he and the others were too far away to hear.

My sisters-in-law half-carried me to the room where the women in our household gave birth. Windowless, to keep out demons, and lit by a small lamp, it was stifling on this summer day. Shayla checked my womb for only a moment before motioning me to the birthing stool. I knew sweat was pouring off me, but I only felt the pain. Wave after wave of agony crashed into me, but I held tight to Rahel’s and Beloria’s hands, and forced myself to moan instead of shriek. I had no idea whether any liliths were present, but even if there had been, I was powerless to vanquish them.

Cool cloths wiped my face and torso, while Mother murmured psalms and Shayla whispered encouraging words about this baby coming just as fast as my first two. Soon, I told myself, soon, as my torment grew unremitting. I grunted, groaned, and whimpered, but I did not cry out except during the final horrendous contraction, which threatened to crush me as I felt the urge to push. This was the height of my suffering, made bearable only because I knew the end was near.

One push for the head, another for the shoulders, and he was out. My son, Rava’s son, was bawling lustily, seemingly making up for all the screams I’d suppressed while laboring with him.

Even from my secluded room, I could hear excited male voices below as they learned the good news. Leuton hurriedly plumped up my cushions and combed my hair, while I arranged the swaddling so the baby’s face would be visible. Then I sat back to await my husband, who, judging by the pounding of feet on the stairs, would be there any instant.

No sooner had Shayla peeked in to verify that I was presentable than Rava pushed past her. He stopped abruptly at the foot of the bed, to compose himself as his eyes filled with tears. “Blessed is He who is good and does good,” he whispered.

This was the blessing the Rabbis had chosen for a father to recite when he first saw his newborn son. Rava said it with special fervor.

“Would you like to hold him?” I held out the small bundle.

My husband’s face, which had just been suffused with love and joy, creased with anxiety. “You think it’s safe?”

“If I can do it, you can. He doesn’t weigh much.” Rava had never held a baby before, but the sooner he got used to it, the better. “Be sure to support his head, since he can’t hold it up by himself yet.”

My warning only made Rava more nervous, and his inept handling made the infant howl in protest.

“I hope our son doesn’t always cry like that,” he said.

 • • • 

Unfortunately he did. He bawled when his swaddling was changed, he bellowed when he was hungry, and at his circumcision, where he received the name Joseph, he shrieked as though he were being murdered. Rava didn’t get much sleep during those first few weeks, so he reluctantly agreed when Father pressed him to travel to Pumbedita for Yom Kippur, to ask Rav Yosef for forgiveness. Rava had barely been gone a day, when Father came in our bedroom while I was nursing Joseph.

He kissed my brow and made himself comfortable on a small chest that doubled as a seat. “I didn’t send your husband away to have a private conversation with you, but I admit I am taking advantage of his absence for that purpose.”

Father looked so serious that I began to worry. “Is something wrong?”

“Just a precaution,” he said, which only made me more anxious. “When your mother and I were wed, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Those first eight months were like heaven—we adored each other and could use the bed as often as we liked.” He sighed. “She belonged to me and me alone . . .”

I could see where he was heading. “Then Yenuka was born.”

“That’s when everything changed. I was abruptly displaced from her sole affection by this yowling infant whose demands on her attention seemed endless,” he said. “To be honest, jealousy and resentment were constant companions to my love for the boy.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he said sadly. “But I suspect that Yenuka sensed my feelings, and the discomfort between us eventually grew too much to breach.”

I reached out and took Father’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“I am concerned about Rava.” Father’s voice grew urgent. “Something about the way he looks at you two leads me to believe that he is struggling with the same feelings of rejection and antipathy.”

“Should I talk to him?”

Father shook his head. “I’m afraid it would only make him more ashamed. I brought this up so you would be aware of his conflict and try to understand and mitigate it.”

 • • • 

As soon as Father left, Mother entered along with a girl barely into adolescence. “Sarkoi, my daughter will be your new mistress.”

The girl bowed and asked, “May I see the baby?” Her voice was sweet and melodious, an asset for a nursemaid, with only the barest hint of the anxiety she must have felt.

I nodded at the cradle, whose occupant soon came awake with a bellow. Addressing Joseph in a soothing singsong tone, Sarkoi picked him up, patted him on the back, and was rewarded with a resounding belch. Smiling, she then expertly changed his swaddling. Of course he continued to cry, but Sarkoi seemed unfazed. “Do you want to feed him now, mistress?” she asked me.

Since only my breast calmed him, I held out my arms. Joseph might be difficult at other times, but when he suckled, he was the sweetest child in the world.

“If you don’t mind,” Sarkoi addressed me, “I will go downstairs and rinse out his swaddling.”

“She’s so young,” I said to Mother when Sarkoi was gone.

“I find that a nursemaid is best obtained just before she turns twelve, when she is old enough to have experience with babies yet her father still has authority over her.” Mother spoke with the quiet assurance of one who didn’t need to raise her voice to be obeyed.

“Of course, Mother.” A girl became subject to the
karga
at twelve, and it was common for poor fathers to avoid that tax by selling their daughters first.

 • • • 

Rava did not return until the middle of Sukkot, arriving shortly before the evening meal. I could tell by the way his shoulders were squared instead of slumped that his trip had been successful. We managed to finish eating before Joseph cried to be fed, and I beckoned Rava to come upstairs with me.

“Tell me what happened in Pumbedita,” I said once Joseph was settled at my breast.

“The day before Yom Kippur, I arrived as Rav Yosef’s slave was about to mix him a cup of wine,” he began. “Too softly for the master to hear, I told the slave to let me prepare it and bring it to him. After drinking half the cup, he looked up with those sightless eyes and declared that the mixture tasted like that of Rava the son of Rav Joseph.”