Enchantress: A Novel of Rav Hisda's Daughter (51 page)

So we stayed to spend Pesach in Pumbedita. Rava insisted he merely wanted to ensure that Abaye was not shunted aside by outsiders, but I wasn’t fooled. He wanted the position for himself. With Rav Nachman’s encouragement, Rava’s conceit and desire for prestige had only grown since our arrival in Machoza. Nachman, whose health was declining, had an excuse for traveling in a litter, but my able-bodied husband should have walked rather than insist on being carried to court.

My father would have condemned Rava’s habit of inspecting a possibly
treif
animal, declaring it permitted, and then buying the best piece of it. When I chided him that Father never bought meat from such an animal, so to prevent even the appearance of impropriety, Rava asserted that he did nothing improper because butchers always gave him the prime cut.

I couldn’t keep silent when Rava started using his Torah learning for personal gain and encouraged others to do so as well. “Father would have been horrified to see you declare that scholars, like the magi, are exempt from the
karga
,” I scolded him.

“Torah scholars are our equivalent of magi,” Rava replied.

“But allowing your students to impersonate them to avoid paying taxes goes too far.”

“Most students are poor,” he explained. “If it is a choice between pretending to be magi or giving up Torah study because they can’t afford their
karga
, then let them pose as magi.”

“Don’t you see that this subterfuge will only cause resentment and disrespect for Torah scholars, particularly among the
amei-ha’aretz
who have to pay more taxes to make up the difference?” I said. But it was evident I had not convinced him.

Though Rava acquired more responsibility and power as Nachman’s health worsened, he sometimes used this authority in ways I applauded, such as when he unilaterally fined wealthy men for not giving to the community charity fund. I admit I couldn’t complain about his pride in the large amounts he gave to the charity collectors himself.

Still, when I criticized his conceit in other matters, he shrugged and replied, “I begged Heaven for three things and I received two. I asked for the wisdom of Rav Huna and the wealth of Rav Hisda, and these I was granted. I also asked for the humility of Rabbah bar Huna, but this I was not given.”

 • • • 

Far from the eyes of their students, Abaye and Rava were able to relax and enjoy the seder. As I observed them comfortably discussing the laws of Pesach, I noted how the two men had aged in the almost twenty years since I first dined with them in this room. Abaye’s hair had now thinned so that the entire top of his head was bald, but his beard was full and bushy. Rava still had his hair, albeit more gray than black, and he now wore his beard fashionably tapered to a point. Both of their faces had developed wrinkles, but Abaye’s were laugh lines while Rava’s creased his forehead and the corners of his eyes.

As anticipated, Rav Yosef died before Pesach ended. The anomaly of a city’s rabbinic leadership being contested four ways ensured that the candidates’ debates drew a large audience. At least that’s what I was told, since women were excluded. Rava and Abaye avoided discussing each day’s proceedings at home, but Joseph, Bibi, and Chama had no such reluctance.

Abaye’s diligence and Rava’s persuasive arguments were well known as their strengths, so the students questioned whether Rav Zeira, who was sharp and raised many difficulties, was superior to Rabbah bar Masnah, who patiently examined the issue until he reached the best conclusion. Each day the four addressed a different subject, the scholars making every effort to rebut the others. Whoever was left unrefuted would lead the Pumbedita rabbis.

This went on for a week, with Rava resolute to refute Zeira if the other two couldn’t, and Zeira equally determined to refute Rava. The contest was at an impasse when they came to a complicated Mishna from Tractate Kiddushin about what happens if a man attempts to betroth two sisters simultaneously. Since a man is forbidden to cohabit with his wife’s sister, the question arose as to whether such a betrothal could be valid.

Chama proudly reported that Rava had derived his opinion, that the betrothal was invalid, from Rami bar Chama. Abaye disagreed and asserted that it was valid. Eventually the debate grew so convoluted that one proof involved a hypothetical case where a father with five daughters and another with five sons agreed to betroth one of their children to the other’s but didn’t specify which. At that point most of the students’ eyes were glazed over, Rabbah bar Masnah had said nothing for some time, and the best Zeira could do was challenge Rava. Abruptly Rava sat back, acknowledged that he had been refuted, and told Abaye to stand up and deliver the final discourse.

Thus Abaye assumed Rav Yosef’s mantle of leadership.

 • • • 

When we arrived home in Machoza, Tamar and my new grandson with us, Ifra and the court had already moved north to the summer palace. When they returned in late fall, I was amazed at the change in King Shapur. First of all, he wasn’t little anymore. He and Acha were the same age, but my son was still a short, pudgy boy while Shapur was already growing lanky. Ifra insisted we dine outdoors where we could watch Shapur show off his horsemanship and proficiency with weapons as he practiced with his tutors.

“Isn’t he magnificent?” Ifra murmured, evidently not concerned with provoking the Evil Eye.

“It’s difficult to believe he’s not yet twelve,” I replied as Shapur parried with his sword master.

“I didn’t have us eat outside merely to admire my son,” she said softly. “Here we are less likely to be overheard.”

I raised my eyebrows questioningly. In the years since Shapur’s birth, I had never heard Ifra complain about palace intrigues. The young king seemed universally loved by his subjects, with his noble advisers less so.

“Next year he will move out of the women’s quarters.” Ifra’s voice showed no enthusiasm. “Then all the courtiers will run to shower him with lies in order to win favor for their houses and sow seeds of distrust for the others.”

“Surely your husband can advise him,” I suggested.

“Varham is like a father to Shapur, which means that Varham is the last man my son will go to for advice.”

Thinking of Rava and Joseph, I winced and nodded.

Ifra put her finger to her lips as slaves cleared away one course and returned with another. When they were out of hearing distance, she said, “Spies are everywhere. Anything I say or do in front of a slave will be reported to someone.”

“Really?”

“The girl serving the wine is in the pay of the Surens, the one who just took our plates the Karins, and the one watching to see if I need anything the Andigans. Those two fanning the flies away work for the Varazes, although one of them is secretly paid by me to spy on them.” Ifra spoke with utter complacency.

“What about the magi?” I asked.

“They have their spies as well.”

“I mean can the magi advise Shapur?”

Ifra paused to consider this. “Kardar is so old I don’t think my son will listen to him.”

“Rava says that Adurbad is very sharp and loyal.”

“Ah yes. I recall how protective and devoted he was.” She turned to me and smiled. “I will have to consult him.”

After that we talked of family matters, of what clever things our children were doing, and other subjects dear to women’s hearts. As I wondered at who might overhear us, Ifra laughed and confided that she sometimes deliberately misspoke, just to spread confusion and disinformation.

“I wish the nobility would put as much effort into keeping the Arabs from attacking our borders as they do into trying to win Shapur’s favor,” she said loudly. Then she whispered to me, “I hope that gets reported back to them.”

 • • • 

When the court returned to the summer palace after Pesach, Yalta called a council meeting to discuss a charge Matun had brought against Diya. I hadn’t forgotten how I’d prevented pockmarked Diya from cursing good-looking Matun, and evidently the animosity between the two had continued.

Yalta announced the accusation with a frown. “Matun claims that Diya, when inscribing
kasa d’charasha
, does not write the actual words of the incantation but instead draws some squiggles that look like words.”

“This is a serious breach.” Nebazak had no qualms about interrupting Yalta. “What evidence does Matun bring?”

“We don’t need evidence as Diya admits her guilt,” Yalta replied. “Even so, I have obtained pieces from a bowl of Diya’s that broke before she could install it.”

She passed the pieces around, and it was obvious this was not merely poor handwriting. The scribbles didn’t even resemble words.

“She must be chastised severely, as well as forbidden to produce any more
kasa d’charasha
,” Nebazak demanded as the other women whispered angrily among themselves.

“I am not finished speaking,” Yalta said, and the room grew quiet. “I consulted with the magi, who informed me that the words on the bowl are only to aid the
charasheta
’s memory. The important thing is that she recite them properly.”

“It doesn’t matter what the bowl says?” Bahmandukh asked in a huff. The elderly sorceress prided herself on knowing everything. “I have never heard such a thing.”

“Angels and demons can’t read Aramaic,” I pointed out. “So they wouldn’t know what is written there.”

The meeting was in an uproar, with several women speaking at once. If anyone could scrawl anything on a bowl, why was a sorceress even necessary?

Yalta held up her hand for silence. “The critical matter is whether Diya’s incantations are effective, and from what I have heard, they are.”

“Rava says many of the magi’s spells are meaningless mumblings, but they work nonetheless,” I said.

“I was always taught that two things are necessary for a successful incantation,” Bahmandukh proclaimed. “Proper pronunciation of the words and the
charasheta
’s power to invoke the angels and adjure the demons involved.”

“I could be wrong,” Ispandoi said timidly. “But perhaps if Diya’s bowls are effective, we shouldn’t interfere.” Ispandoi always seemed so insecure. I couldn’t imagine how she’d found the strength to summon Ashmedai.

Nebazak was not so easily mollified. “Even if we permit Diya to continue as she does, she must not train any apprentices in this fashion,” she said sternly.

“It is still important that the spells be written,” I added, supporting my friend’s position. “That way the proper wording will not be lost.”

After Nebazak’s proposal was adopted, Ispandoi brought up a troublesome subject, one so fraught with anxiety she couldn’t speak without quavering. “My husband says it has become much more difficult to travel the southern Silk Road safely.” Her voice softened until it was barely audible. “He has heard reports of men turned into donkeys and left to starve.”

“These are not mere rumors,” Bahmandukh declared. “My son is a merchant and he has seen them with his own eyes.”

We knew Yalta’s daughter was to blame, but we also knew that if Yalta couldn’t control her, none of us could. Still, this was a challenge to Yalta’s supremacy. And if it continued, it would encourage other potential
kashafot
to think that they too could use dark magic with impunity.

“I will look into the matter,” Yalta said. “In the meantime spread the word among the merchants that walking through water will reverse the spell.”

“Perhaps it might help if we taught them the
tachim-tachtim
or ‘torn baskets’ incantation,” Ispandoi suggested.

This was firmly rejected, for if such simple antidotes to dark magic were widely known, many of us would be unemployed. For myself, I resolved to question Ashmedai how to control Zafnat before Tachlifa and Samuel encountered her gang of bandits.

 • • • 

That autumn Joseph did not return to Machoza at Tishrei. Tamar was pregnant again, and feeling ill most of the time, so he said there was no need to visit her. Their second son, Haviva, was born at Em’s just after Purim, and his justification for not coming home for Pesach was that it was too soon after the birth for Tamar and the baby to travel.

I’d had enough of my son’s excuses. When Rav Nachman, on his deathbed, insisted Rava remain with him until the Angel of Death came, I had my chance to take our younger sons to see their brother in Pumbedita. As with Chama years earlier, I took Joseph up to the city ramparts. It was both private and not easy for him to flee if he got upset.

I gave him time to admire the view before addressing him. “Joseph, you haven’t been home in over two years.” I kept my voice gentle so he’d confide in me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said defensively. “You’ve seen how Abaye teaches, how often he praises me. Why wouldn’t I want to study with him instead of Father?”

“It’s more than that. You can tell me,” I pleaded.

He stared off in the distance and I restrained my impatience with his lengthy silence. But I was unprepared for his response. “I’m afraid to see Father. He pretended not to show it at my wedding, but I know he hates me.”

I put my arm around his shoulder, but he refused to look at me. “Your father loves you. You are his firstborn son.” When Joseph didn’t respond, I continued: “Yes, he easily gets angry with you, but sometimes you provoke him . . . like you did at your wedding when you made him publicly admit his mistake.”

“I know I should have corrected him later, in private, but he was so full of himself and such an easy target.” My son sounded more defiant than sorry. “It was simple to avoid him during the wedding week, but just before our boat left, Father told me on the dock that he was still too upset to speak to me about the incident, but we would certainly discuss it later.”

“This thing has been festering between you all this time?” I felt sick to my stomach. “How could you avoid addressing it on Yom Kippur?”

“Oh, he came to me on Yom Kippur, piously claiming that he’d forgiven my insult.” Joseph’s voice sounded as sarcastic as Rava’s used to. “But it was merely an excuse to criticize me more. He may say he’s forgiven me, but he hasn’t forgotten.”