by Maggie Anton
Yet when Rami was gone, I didn’t feel alone. After all, my sister lived there too, and I was able to see Mother and my sisters-in-law nearly every day at synagogue. The four slaves I brought as part of my dowry made the domestic drudgery less onerous on the others, although two of them would hopefully be adding nursemaid to their responsibilities in the near future.
It was strange to be part of such a small household, one with no children at all. Pushbi took her meals in her room, so only Ukva, Achti, and I dined together at midday. Rami joined us in the evening, when he regaled us with what he’d learned in court or from Father’s lectures.
We ate well. Achti saw to that, although our food came from the souk and not, as at Father’s villa, predominantly from our own land. Thus my world opened up, and I reveled in the opportunity to go shopping nearly every day. Sura lay at my feet, and there was no one to make me stay home. Achti took pleasure in instructing me how to identify the finest meats, the freshest vegetables, the best-tasting fruits and cheeses. I knew it reinforced her opinion that studying Mishna had prevented me from learning subjects more appropriate and practical for my gender, but I so enjoyed wandering the city that I accepted her gibes at my ignorance. I was ignorant, and happy to remedy it.
Now that Rami was married, Rav Huna appointed him a market inspector. His new responsibilities included ensuring that meat was slaughtered according to Jewish Law, that all weights and measures were accurate, and that only authorized local sellers set up stalls in the souk. It was impossible for me to avoid the merchants under his jurisdiction, and though I tried to avert being given any special treatment, Achti had no such scruples.
Achti may have thought my Mishna learning was a waste, but she had no complaints about my magic studies, not after she saw how much my amulets sold for. Thank Heaven I couldn’t inscribe them on inauspicious days, or she would have sent me to Kimchit’s daily. Our slaves were eager to accompany me there, since all they had to do was sit and spin flax while I wrote. None of them complained to Achti when I made us take longer-than-necessary routes coming and going, as I sought out new streets to explore, new shops to visit.
And not just food sellers. There were entire streets populated by metal smiths, leatherworkers, cobblers, and tailors, each with its own smell. Plus there were wheelwrights, rope makers, and workers who manufactured bricks. Carpenters’ products ranged from plain boxes to elaborately carved furniture. Sura’s location on the Euphrates meant that near the docks there were shipbuilders and sailcloth weavers. Every store fascinated me, and my diligent exploration ensured that I would never get lost in the souk.
Rahel was delighted when I arrived back at the villa with Father. “Tomorrow will be the perfect time to teach you a new incantation,” she said after giving me a hug. “Sixth Day is ruled by Venus, and you’ll have just immersed. But most important, you are no longer a virgin.”
With this intriguing introduction in my mind, and following a night of renewed ardor with Rami, I was brimming with curiosity the next morning.
“Do you remember how I burned my hand, years ago, while crafting a kasa d’charasha?” Rahel asked.
I recalled it perfectly. “Of course. That is how I became your apprentice.”
“I never explained what I was doing with that bowl, why it was being burned.”
“I thought it was a new pot, fresh from the kiln.” I stopped to review what I knew about making pottery. “But aren’t new vessels usually left in the kiln until they cool?”
“That’s right.” She nodded her approval. “That particular bowl had already been inscribed, and both burning and breaking it were part of the magical procedure. My mistake was grabbing it by hand instead of with tongs.”
“What kind of incantation was on it?”
“It was a love spell, for the purpose of making a certain man desire a certain woman, or perhaps the other way around.”
“Both men and women buy these kinds of bowls?”
Rahel smiled and nodded.
Imagining how exciting it might feel to create such erotic magic, I couldn’t hide my eagerness. “And today I’m going to inscribe one.”
Rahel handed me the small bowl, whose clay was still damp, and a stylus instead of the usual choice of quills and ink. The bowl was scored from top to bottom in several places, and I looked at her for elucidation.
“The kasa is designed to easily break into predetermined pieces,” she explained. “You must write so that a word stays entirely on one piece.”
I nodded and she started reciting the incantation. “In Your name, Adonai, Creator of heaven and earth, this bowl is designated for Zabim bar Duti so he may become inflamed, heated, and long after Sarka bat Alista. Just as this piece of pottery burns, so shall the heart of Zabim bar Duti burn for Sarka bat Alista. Upon her let him lie down, with her let him spend his nights. In the names of Rahmiel, the Angel of Compassion, and of Nuriel, the angel appointed over loveliness and grace, bring down a fire from Your fire and kindle the heart of Zabim bar Duti. In the name of Abrasax the great angel who overturned Sodom and Gomorrah, so You should turn the heart of Zabim bar Duti after Sarka bat Alista. Amen. Amen. Selah. Hallelujah.”
I repeated the words to show that I remembered them, and when Rahel complimented my memory, I said, “I can see why you’d have a married charasheta write this kind of thing.” I colored at the thought of what would happen when Zabim suddenly became inflamed with passion for Sarka.
“Especially one who has experienced love and desire.” Rahel grinned at my flaming cheeks.
When I finished inscribing the love spell into the damp clay, I carefully handed it over for her approval. “I never thanked you for your advice after my wedding,” I said.
“No need.” She chuckled. “Your happiness is thanks enough.”
I felt so embarrassed at how visible my marital pleasure was that I promptly brought the subject back to the bowl I’d just written. “Now what happens to the kasa?”
“As the incantation instructs, we fire it in the kiln and then break it into pieces,” she replied, “which we bury individually, either at the home of the spell’s object or at the synagogue.”
“Isn’t it difficult to bury them at someone’s home without anyone knowing?” I asked, thinking of how Tabita had buried Pushbi’s curse bowl in the cemetery. “Not that the synagogue would be any more private.”
Rahel chuckled again. “Sometimes the buyer doesn’t want the bowl to be a secret, particularly if the couple is eager to marry but a father disapproves.”
“I can see how a reluctant father might not want to oppose the angels Rahmiel, Nuriel, and Abrasax.”
“Especially as the latter was responsible for destroying Sodom and Gomorrah.”
“How do you chant the incantation?” I recalled how boldly she’d addressed the demons her bowls adjured. “Tabita mumbled the curse spell so quietly I could barely understand her.”
“A love spell is cast softly and seductively, as appropriate for such gentle angels as Rahmiel and Nuriel.”
I thought of Keshisha and Zahra. “What if the woman is a convert and the man a priest?”
“I won’t write a love spell unless the couple mentioned is fit to marry,” she replied. “Although there are some who will do so for anyone, even if one of them is already married, if the price is high enough.”
After the clay hardened in the kiln, Rahel used tongs to hold it over the fire until its sides were dark with soot. Then she carefully tapped it against a stone until it shattered. I was gratified to see that it broke exactly along the marks she had scored earlier.
But I couldn’t help but feel disgust for any sorcerer or kashafa who would write such a terrible spell as to make a married woman love a man who wasn’t her husband.
The month of Tammuz was a sorrowful time in Bavel. On the Seventeenth, the day that the Romans breached Jerusalem’s walls in their quest to destroy the city, Jews began three weeks of mourning for the destruction of the Holy Temple, culminating i
n a daylong fast on the Ninth of Av, the following month. Zahra insisted that Persians had no such solemn festivals, and in fact were forbidden to mourn on their holidays. Yet old traditions survived, and one that refused to disappear was women’s mourning during Tammuz.
Kimchit explained it to me at her amulet shop. “In days long ago when Babylonians worshipped many gods, the handsome shepherd Tammuz was the lover of Ishtar, queen of heaven,” she began. “But demons, jealous of the youth’s beauty and Ishtar’s love for him, killed Tammuz as the sun rose on the longest day of the year. Immediately the weather became so hot and dry that all vegetation perished.”
“Which is how the month of Tammuz got its name,” I suggested.
Kimchit ignored my interruption. “Thus Tammuz, the month of the summer tekufa, begins the long, dry season.”
I wrinkled my nose in repugnance. “So all the women who mourn during this month are bewailing some pagan shepherd who died aeons ago?” What strange ideas these idol worshippers had.
Kimchit shook her head. “Not exactly. According to legend, Ishtar continued to grieve for her lover during the month named for him, so other women grieved with her. Today women still mourn—for children who died young, for young men who died in battle before they could marry, and for husbands who died in the prime of life, like Tammuz himself.”
“Ezekiel complained about that.” I quoted the prophet’s words: “Then He brought me to the entrance of the north gate of Adonai’s House; behold, there sat women weeping for Tammuz.”
“I doubt he’s pleased to see women still crying over Tammuz, especially right outside his tomb.”
“Jewish women perform their idolatry there?” Merely the thought of it appalled me.
“Women, Jewish and Persian, mourn at all the cemeteries,” Kimchit said. “And Ezekiel’s tomb is the oldest one in Sura.”
Every morning during the first week of Tammuz, even on Shabbat, I observed women crying in the streets. At services their swollen eyes and tear-streaked faces made it easy to identify those who had come directly from the cemetery. But the next week I lost interest in the mourners.
According to my calculations, I should have become niddah around the sixth of Tammuz. As the Sages taught, I diligently examined myself twice a day by inserting a clean linen cloth into the mouth of my womb. Yet even on the fifteenth of Tammuz, when the full moon made the date obvious even to those without a calendar, there was no sign of blood on my cloths. So far my flow had always started well before the full moon and in fact was usually finished by then. But I said nothing, for such a happy announcement would surely provoke the Evil Eye.
I wondered when Rami would notice that almost a month had passed since my previous immersion and how I should respond if he mentioned it. I had my answer the next day.
“Dodi,” he began, and then coughed, his face blushing. “Do you, uh, usually bleed at the same time every month?”
I could feel my face grow warm as well. “Yes, when the moon is waxing.”
He gazed down at my flat belly and then quickly looked away. He had tried to hide it, but I saw a brief burst of joy in his eyes before his expression clouded. “What are you going to do when it’s time to immerse again?”
“That will be a problem,” I admitted. My immersion at Father’s the previous month meant that my entire family knew when I’d be due to use the mikvah again. “Would it be dishonest if I went to the villa as expected but merely bathed in the pond instead of immersing?”
“The weather has been hot.” Rami took my hand and squeezed it gently. “So you have a good excuse for bathing.”
“I wouldn’t be trying to deceive my family,” I said, feeling more confident about the subterfuge. “Rather, I wouldn’t want the Evil Eye to notice that I hadn’t been to the mikvah.”
“Or any people who might give you the Evil Eye.”
“It’s a good thing this hot weather is likely to continue for months.” I gave his hand a squeeze in return. “It will probably become too cold for bathing just about the time people would notice anyway.”
“I suppose I should inform my mother,” Rami said tentatively. “Or we could just wait until she notices.”
Pushbi was still bedridden, but otherwise her health seemed no worse than it was six months ago. Ukva kept her informed on their land’s productivity, and guests still came to visit her. Achti and I made an effort to each sit with her daily, although I preferred to do so in Rami’s company, when she chatted with him and ignored me. Of course Pushbi would be happy with the news, but I didn’t want to be the one to tell her.
Though Rami and I continued to visit my family for Shabbat, every four weeks we arrived on the afternoon of Fifth Day so I could bathe in the pond. I felt remorse as they tried to hide their disappointment but consoled myself that their delight with the truth would erase their earlier sadness. Rahel continued to have bowls waiting for me to write, although there were no more love spells. Some were incantations to adjure the evil ruchim and liliths that caused miscarriage, and those I inscribed with special kavanah, focusing my entire intention as I imagined the fetus growing in my womb.
In addition to my concerns for the baby, I also worried about Grandfather, who seemed frailer each time I saw him. Was it because I visited only once a week that his decline seemed more apparent or was he truly failing that quickly? Or perhaps my pregnancy made me more aware of the decaying odor that emanated from his sickbed.
Hopeful that learning about the baby would give him strength, I relented and told him when I came to bathe in Elul. “I need to ask your forgiveness, Grandfather.” I tried to look serious, but it was difficult to keep a smile off my face.
His brows knitted in concern. “Surely you’re not afraid that I won’t live until Yom Kippur?”
Actually I was, but I continued with what I wanted to say. “I’ve been deceiving you and I want you to know the truth.”
“You, lying to your grandfather? Impossible.”
I explained how I’d led everyone to believe that I was using the mikvah when really I hadn’t needed to immerse for three months. “Only the first time was for real.”
Beaming with happiness, he sat up and held out his arms. As he hugged me, he whispered, “How are you feeling, child? Are you well?”
“Very well,” I whispered back. “A little queasiness in the morning, but otherwise I feel quite healthy.” I also tired early in the evening, but people attributed our going to bed shortly after sunset to our newlywed status.
He chuckled softly and gave me another hug. “Clever girl, tricking the Evil Eye this way.”
“Please don’t tell anyone yet.”
“How long will you keep it secret?”
“Rami and I have decided that I won’t come to bathe next month,” I said. “Neither of us wants to be guilty of misleading our entire family on Yom Kippur.”
Grandfather’s eyes twinkled with glee. “Don’t you worry about telling anyone, child. Leave that to me.” He patted my hand. “When you and Achti dine with us on Rosh Hashana, everyone here will know.”
Ha-Elohim. I would have to tell Achti—who had not conceived since her miscarriage last winter. Thus far she had commiserated with me each month when I went to bathe, and would surely feel betrayed when she learned the truth.
I wanted to talk to Achti, I really did, but there never seemed to be the right moment. My silence finally caught up with me on the fifteenth of Elul, when Zahra felt labor pains just before dawn. Despite Zahra being merely a slave, Rami went to fetch Mother and Shayla, leaving me with a conundrum. If Mother and Shayla knew I was with child, which they probably did, then I had to tell Achti before they mentioned it in front of her.
Either that or ask them not to say anything.
Achti was so excited about Zahra’s baby coming that the latter choice seemed wiser. So I watched from an upstairs window until Rami came into view, and then raced down to meet them.
Mother was sympathetic when I explained my dilemma. “Shayla an
d I won’t say anything, but you’d better have a good excuse for not sharing this news with your sister.”
Shayla disagreed. “Dada is not obligated to tell anyone, not even her husband. Those with a discerning eye will find out earlier and others later.”
“I’ll wait and judge her mood after Zahra’s baby is born,” I said when we reached the courtyard gate. Hopefully an opportune moment would present itself.
Mother and Shayla disappeared into the lying-in chamber, giving firm instructions that I was not to enter until the baby was born. I marveled that two such prominent women were helping my slave give birth, although perhaps it was because, slave or not, the baby was Mother’s grandchild.
Not long after, Mother came out. “Zahra’s womb has barely started to open,” she told us. “You may as well all go about your normal occupations. I will return to the villa with Rami, and Shayla can send a slave for me when necessary.”
There was nothing else to do but break our fast, so the slaves brought out fresh bread and porridge, serving some to Ukva, Rami, and me, and then taking the rest behind the closed door where Zahra lay. Soon I was alone. Either Zahra’s labor hadn’t progressed to a painful point or as a slave she had learned to keep her pain hidden. In any case I could hear nothing from her chamber. So when I saw a neighbor leaving for synagogue, I went with her.
When we returned a few hours later, all was quiet and the door still closed. A slave told me that the baby was coming so slowly that Achti had gone shopping for food, and I had the impression that my informant suspected Zahra of feigning labor in order to shirk her responsibilities.
At the midday meal, Shayla assured us that Zahra’s labor was real, but that first births often take a long time. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I saw anxiety in her eyes. When we were done eating, Achti sat with Zahra while Shayla went upstairs to rest. The fifteenth of the month was not an auspicious day for writing amulets, so I took out the small loom I used for weaving silk ribbons.
I’d no sooner sat down than Pushbi’s maidservant approached me. “The mistress saw Shayla on the landing and wants to know what she’s doing here?”