Enchantress: A Novel of Rav Hisda's Daughter (40 page)

“It has been agreed that Joseph will be wed to Abaye and Homa’s daughter Tamar,” I replied.

“So two of your sons will marry two of Abaye’s daughters,” he said with approval. “We will be an even closer family.”

 • • • 

I knew Rav Nachman was wealthy and Yalta was the exilarch’s daughter, so I expected their home in Machoza to be large and nicely furnished, not dissimilar to Father’s. But I was wrong. While the size of Nachman’s property couldn’t match Father’s, which included vast date groves and orchards, Nachman’s villa was so exorbitant and lavishly appointed it seemed we had moved into a palace. The public rooms were paved with mosaics almost as exquisite as Rabbi Avahu’s. Everywhere I looked, there was something to fill me with awe. Perhaps most impressive and worrisome was that each of what seemed to be an excessive number of female slaves was a beauty.

Unlike Father’s house, with its interconnected series of rooms surrounding an inner courtyard, and a garden on one side and animal pens on the other, Nachman’s was laid out with several private apartments on one side, public rooms in the center, and the courtyard with adjacent slave quarters on the other side, closest to the street.

Thus Rava and I had two floors of rooms, the roof above, and a small garden for our family’s personal use.

It was an exquisite garden. Sweet-smelling vines covered the walls, while rosebushes and other flowering plants were laid out in beds around a gently burbling fountain. Stone benches were strategically placed so etrog trees would shade them in the afternoon.

I assumed such a large villa would be home to many of Nachman’s children as well as housing numerous guests, but this was not the case. After befriending Yalta’s laundress, Leuton informed me that Yalta was the mother of only one of Nachman’s six sons, Mar Zutra, and even he didn’t live in Machoza. The other five were born from Nachman’s temporary marriages, and thus lived with their mothers in cities some distance away. Evidently Yalta refused to allow them in her home.

Yes, our lodgings were excellent, but I would have preferred to live with Rava’s brother. There our sons could play with their cousins, and we wouldn’t have our every move scrutinized by Yalta’s slaves and reported back to her. Thankfully, Leuton made good use of her own eyes and ears, and I made sure she knew how much I appreciated her information.

 • • • 

Our days soon fell into a pattern. Despite our small numbers, men, women, and children ate separately except on Shabbat. At least twice a week I ate with our steward, Efra, as we went over accounts together. He now lived in our apartments, sharing the room next to Rava’s study with Tobia and Papi. On auspicious days, I inscribed incantations for Machozean women. I was not surprised that they wanted bowls to protect against the Evil Eye and to counter curses. Being so wealthy, they had reason to fear being envied.

At first I was frustrated that, instead of clients, nearly all Yalta’s visitors were
charasheta
or nobility. But my impatience waned as I watched how she interacted with them, playing one woman against another, or one group against another, with no scruples about misleading and manipulating people. Sometimes I was appalled by her behavior, sometimes I was impressed, and sometimes both at once.

It was two months before I first dined alone with Yalta.

“Hisdadukh, I have only heard good reports from your clients,” she said.

“Thank you.” I was grateful for the praise and suspicious of her reason for offering it.

“Tomorrow the moon will be in Leo and we will be casting a binding spell.”

“I’ve never done one,” I admitted.

“That is why I’m explaining the procedure to you now.”

I sat back to give Yalta my full attention. “The client is a woman whose husband abuses her but will not divorce her.” Yalta scowled and continued: “To remedy this intolerable situation, we will curse him so that he can no longer harden in bed, after which the court can force him to write her a
get
and pay her
ketuba
amount.”

“What do I have to do?”

“The spell is most effective when two
charasheta
cast it simultaneously from positions opposite each other, with the man in the middle,” she said. “You will accompany me to an intersection the man is known to frequent, where we will stand on either side and await his arrival.”

“And then?” I was excited to be performing such powerful, and public, magic.

“When he passes between us, I will give the signal, and you will cast the spell along with me. Listen carefully.”

She recited the incantation slowly, pronouncing each word precisely. When I repeated it exactly as she’d said it, her eyes widened and she said it again, this time faster and with a specific inflection. Again I replicated both her words and cadence, and then chortled inwardly at her surprise when she added hand motions and I did the whole procedure perfectly.

“Do you have any questions?” she asked me.

“Won’t the man notice what we’re doing and object?”

“The spell works best when the man realizes he is the target, so be sure to wear something colorful.” Yalta smiled, but it was more of a smirk. “As for objecting, most men are too afraid of what I’d curse them with next.”

I couldn’t resist asking, “And how would you curse him next?”

“I’d probably turn him into a donkey.” She chuckled at this, but I couldn’t tell if she was joking or enjoying the prospect. I admit I would have liked to see her do it.

 • • • 

The next morning Leuton raised an eyebrow but offered no protest when I had her dress me in my brightest red silk tunic.

Yalta, dressed in such a vivid mauve that nobody could possibly miss her, nodded in approval and showed me how to arrange the veil so my face was obscured but both hands were free.

“The man’s wife has sent word that he has gone to his usual synagogue, wearing a tunic with green and yellow stripes,” Yalta said. “We will encounter him as he returns.”

I didn’t want to challenge her confidence, but it had been difficult to sleep because I kept imagining the man attacking me in fury. “What do we do if he is not like most men, and does object?”

“We will watch while Nachman’s slaves restrain him.” She pointed to the four burly guards loitering near the door. “First they will carry our litter.”

As Yalta and I traveled to the designated spot, I considered the other differences between Father’s household and Rav Nachman’s. Father’s two doorkeepers were rather elderly, as their responsibility consisted of waiting by the courtyard gate and announcing the occasional visitor. The position was considered a reward for a male slave’s lengthy and loyal service. Nachman had at least a dozen muscular, mean-looking slaves, some of whom accompanied him and Yalta whenever they went out. The others served as guards, two stationed outside the courtyard gate at all hours, two just inside, and one each at the entrances to Nachman and Yalta’s separate quarters.

That was another disparity between the two houses. As far as I could remember, Father and Mother had always shared a bedroom, as did my brothers and their wives. Here Nachman had his own apartment and Yalta had hers, and according to Leuton there was no connecting passage between them.

I was speculating on what had led to such an estrangement, when the litter slowed. This was only the second time in my life that I’d been in one, and that ride had also led to some major sorcery. The space inside was roomy and the air outside cool for early spring, yet it was stifling to be cooped up in there with Yalta. Her pungent perfume, which I barely noticed at home, assaulted my nose and made it difficult to breathe. Already nervous enough, I began to feel my panic rising.

I was beyond thankful when the litter came to a halt and the curtains opened. I jumped out onto a crowded, unfamiliar street, but then for me most of Machoza’s streets seemed crowded and unfamiliar. Passersby stopped and watched us alight, curious about the litter’s occupants. Dressed so conspicuously, we attracted more attention as we walked to our appointed posts.

By this time I was sweating with anxiety. Despite knowing the words, I repeated the incantation twice to reassure and calm myself. Suddenly the lookout coughed loudly, and I spotted what had to be our target—a man with the stature of Nachman’s guards, dressed in green and yellow, sauntering down the road in our direction. When he waited at the intersection for some carts to cross, Yalta lifted her hand.

That was her signal. I stared at the man intently and cast the spell exactly as I saw Yalta doing, matching my words and gestures to hers. Midway through he sensed that he was being observed and looked around wildly until he caught sight of Yalta and then me. His face contorted into a snarl and he raised an arm as if to ward off an attack.

But it was too late. The incantation was finished. Enraged, he started toward Yalta, but long before he would have reached her, two of our bodyguards, moving faster than I would expect for men that heavy, stood between them. My fear dissipated into relief when I realized the other two guards were standing in readiness on either side of me.

Our target opened his mouth, undoubtedly to hurl some choice maledictions at us, but Yalta mumbled something and not a word came out. He impotently shook his fist at us, and continued to do so until we were safely ensconced in the litter with the curtains closed. We rode in silence. Yalta looked calm and pleased with herself, but my heart was pounding with the exhilaration that comes after successfully completing a dangerous and challenging task.

We returned home well before the midday meal, and I was eager to change out of my damp clothes. That was when Yalta astonished me by declaring, “That was filthy work. I can’t wait to bathe.”

My jaw dropped and it took a moment to find my voice. “Bathe? You have baths here.”

In a voice filled with pride and hauteur, she declared, “I have an entire bathhouse, and I bribe the magi well so they don’t bother me about it.”

I couldn’t stop myself. “Could I please bathe too? I spent five years in the West and that is the one thing I miss.”

I could see Yalta wavering between wanting to maintain her privacy and the desire to show off her bathhouse to someone who would appreciate it.

Finally she relented. “Very well. You deserve a reward for your part in our success today.”

I’d considered our apartment luxurious, but there was no comparison to the opulence of Yalta’s rooms. In addition to cushions for seating, there were Roman-style couches covered in colorful silk. A quick glance into her sleeping chamber revealed that her bedding was silk as well, for it was impossible to dye linen such vibrant colors. Everywhere I looked were objects made of gold, some useful, like lamps, and others merely decorative.

Needless to say, her private garden, which we walked through to reach the bathhouse, was magnificent. But it was the baths themselves that took my breath away. The number of different pools couldn’t rival the number in Sepphoris, or their mosaics compare to Salaman’s, but it was incredible that Yalta had managed to reproduce a miniature Roman bathhouse in Bavel’s very capital. There were only three pools and two massage benches, but the stonework had been done by a master mason. I couldn’t begin to imagine how much it had cost, both for the construction and for the silence of everyone involved.

It was strange to bathe with only Yalta and her personal slaves present. Any hope that her aloofness would evaporate along with the steam in this intimate space soon evaporated as well. When I complimented her on all she had achieved, her response was a curt acknowledgment followed by silence. So I set about to enjoy the experience, which I suspected would not be a regular occurrence.

Her two slaves washed my hair and anointed me competently, but when Yalta lay down for her massage, one opened the garden door and led me out. I was surprised when the other girl smiled at Yalta with more familiarity than I thought appropriate, but what astounded me was the grin Yalta gave in return.

TWENTY-FIVE

TENTH YEAR OF KING HORMIZD II’S REIGN
• 310 CE •

P
esach began on Third Day that year, so Rav Nachman’s court only convened for the morning. Our midday meal was meager, barely enough to whet our appetite for later. Yalta’s slaves had already removed all the
hametz
in the house, so there was no bread, but we wouldn’t get our first taste of matzah until that evening. With no guests in attendance, Rava and I took advantage of this rare opportunity to dine together alone.

“We had an odd case today, one you might find interesting.” Rava sounded like he was about to ask a question, but he didn’t. “Some
charasheta
were implicated.”

“Tell me.” I kept my voice noncommittal.

“We received a petition for divorce from a woman whose husband was impotent,” he began. “Normally this is a routine matter, but the man refused to write the
get
so we had to summon him to court.”