Enchantress: A Novel of Rav Hisda's Daughter (43 page)

At the same time King Hormizd and his army were on their way to the Arabian Desert in what many assumed was his first step on a path that would ultimately lead to war with Rome. During our short trip to Sura, I heard many merchants express sentiments similar to, “It’s about time the king chased those Arab hordes back into their caves,” and “I had to abandon the southern Silk Road because of the danger.”

We arrived shortly after Hanukah ended, and a few days after that, twelve months having passed since Mother’s death, Chama bar Rami married Elisheva bat Abaye. While I enjoyed my son’s wedding far more than the king’s, it was a bittersweet pleasure. My son, the first fruit of my womb, was getting married. The way he looked at Elisheva when he removed her veil, his gaze both eager and tender, brought back unbidden memories of my wedding to his father. If the stars smiled on Chama and Elisheva, next year I would be a grandmother. Me, who only a few months ago had been nursing my own child, a grandmother? It seemed impossible that the years had flown by so rapidly.

I told myself it was the lack of Mother’s protection that made my brothers suddenly look old. Now they nearly all had gray hair, those who still had hair. Father’s remaining wisps were completely white and he walked gingerly, as if it hurt. It saddened me to realize that Chama was the only son of mine whose wedding Father would likely live to see.

But then the music started and my foot began to tap the floor in time with the drumming. I recalled how Father had responded when Rav Huna complained that it was scandalous for an old woman like Mother to adorn herself during Chol haMoed, even for a wedding.

“Even your mother, even your grandmother, even a woman standing on her grave may adorn herself,” Father retorted. “Six or sixty, they all run to dance when they hear the timbrels sound.”

Mother had danced at my wedding when she was well past sixty, and I wasn’t yet forty. Following her example, I stood up and joined the circle of women dancing around Elisheva. After that I danced with Achti and with Homa, and when I tired I watched Rava dance with Abaye. Later, long after Chama had entered the bridal chamber, when I was so weary I could scarcely stand, I took Em’s hand and we sedately danced together while the musicians played a gentle melody.

It was well past midnight when Rava and I went upstairs to bed. The tender look in his eyes as he ran his fingers through my loosened hair made me think he was remembering our nuptials.

His words confirmed it. “Do you realize it’s been ten years almost to the day since we occupied that bridal chamber downstairs?”

I kissed him gently. “And I’ve hardly ever regretted it.”

He still didn’t understand teasing. “I haven’t regretted a single moment, Dodi,” he said with utmost seriousness.

“Abba, the only moment I can recall regretting was a brief one on our wedding night,” I whispered seductively. “But I certainly don’t regret what it led to.”

He pulled my hair back and began kissing my neck. “I admit I share your ambivalence about that.”

I pressed my thighs against his to be sure he didn’t misunderstand my intent. “Just thinking about it makes me want to repeat it.”

Though my husband was now forty, he had no difficulty doing so. And repeating it.

The next morning I slept so late that Chama and Elisheva were already downstairs when I woke. One look at them, giggling and blushing and unable to keep their hands from touching each other, and I knew their wedding night had been a success too.

 • • • 

The week passed all too swiftly, and it was with great reluctance that I packed my wedding finery for our return to Yalta’s household. My mood was so glum that at first I didn’t notice the anxious faces at the Sura docks.

“Something is wrong,” Rava said as we waited for the boatmen to load our things. “No one is joking or arguing.”

“None of the sailors are singing like they usually do either,” I pointed out.

“Boatman,” Rava called to one who looked particularly grim, “we’ve been away for some days. What news have you heard?”

“Worrisome news, master.” He beckoned us closer and lowered his voice. “Word is that King Hormizd was wounded in battle.”

 • • • 

No one at the royal palace noticed or cared that Ifra observed Shiva for King Hormizd at Rav Nachman’s. Yalta didn’t publicize her grieving guest, but even so, some ladies from the exilarch’s court stopped by each day. Everyone assumed Nehemiah would soon arrange for his daughter’s return, as was customary for a childless widow whose husband had already fathered children.

It was difficult to say how bereft Ifra felt. Her skin, radiantly fair before, was now pale and wan. I saw no evidence of tears, and though her room was next to mine, I never heard her crying. She rarely appeared outside her apartment, and when she did, she sat in silence wringing her hands. Still, I made a point of joining her to offer what consolation I could.

I was surprised when Ifra asked Yalta and me to accompany her back to the palace. Its enormous carved walls, magnificent domed entrance, and wide reflecting pools made me pause with admiration when I passed by, but walking under that soaring archway left me mute with awe. Once in the women’s quarters, I was disappointed to find that the furnishings were similar to, and even less luxurious than, those at Rav Nachman’s.

Yalta looked inordinately pleased, but her smirk disappeared when we heard loud cries. Ifra increased her pace and then abruptly turned to pass through a curtained doorway and into the arms of an older noblewoman who was weeping copiously.

“I can’t bear any more dreadful news,” the woman wailed onto Ifra’s shoulder. “First Hormizd and now Peroz.”

“Oh, Shapurdukh.” Ifra stroked her hair. “I’m sorry.”

Judging by her name, Shapurdukh had to be of royal lineage, but she was clearly too young to be the daughter of the King Shapur who had captured Father’s steward Timonus.

“My poor brother. They say it was a hunting accident.” Shapurdukh’s voice was heavy with skepticism.

I looked at Yalta helplessly and she promptly whispered, “Queen Shapurdukh is another of King Hormizd’s widows, as well as his cousin.”

Somebody must have noticed our arrival, as slaves brought out trays of fruits, nuts, and sweets. My appetite retreated at the piteous sight of two widows crying together, and I was grateful when Yalta found an excuse to leave.

 • • • 

Less than a week later, Ifra sent the royal litter for us.

“Come with me.” Ifra led the way to a large enclosed garden. We sat on benches among burbling fountains and she looked around anxiously. “Another royal cousin has died, this time from
askera
. King Adhur Narseh now sleeps with guards in his room in addition to those at the door, and he only eats foods cooked and tasted the day before.”

Askera
was a greatly feared disease that killed by choking the patient until he could no longer swallow or breathe. A Baraita warned that a person who ate food without salt or drank any beverage without adding water should worry about contracting
askera
at night. That wouldn’t be likely at the palace; however, there were poisons that mimicked the symptoms of
askera
.

Yalta waved her hand dismissively. “Adhur Narseh is afraid of his own shadow. What are his brothers doing?”

“Princes Shapur and Ardeshir now wait several hours after their food was tasted before eating it, but Prince Hormizd insists they are a pair of timid rabbits.” Ifra’s voice, already low, softened. “Queen Shapurdukh has ordered all the ladies’ food tasted.”

I took hold of her hand. “Are you worried?”

Ifra startled and gave a little giggle, reminding me that she was only sixteen. “Why should I worry? I have no claim to the throne.” She paused and said, this time quite loudly, “My father is already building a widow’s house for me.”

“It should reassure you that I have detected no dark magic while I’ve been here, only protective spells,” I said.

I agreed to return after Shabbat with an amulet, in a gold case of course, to safeguard Ifra from all kinds of demons, dangers, and sickness, and especially against the Evil Eye. By that time the palace would hopefully be calmer.

 • • • 

I was wrong. When I arrived with Ifra’s amulet, the harem was in an uproar. During the night, two of King Adhur Narseh’s food-tasting slaves had died, and to make matters worse, Prince Hormizd had apparently been poisoned as well. The magi, mumbling incantations and distributing amulets, predicted that he would survive.

Prince Shapur and Prince Ardeshir were suspected, but their mother, Queen Cashmag, maintained their innocence, insisting that the Suren and Karin noble houses had plotted to incriminate her sons. Some said it was Cashmag herself, a princess from the east who had access to such powerful and undetectable poisons. Others accused the eastern Varaz and Andigan houses of acting in her interest.

At Ifra’s adamant invitation, I stayed and broke bread with her. Not daring to eat much, each of us chewed slowly and cautiously, trying to detect any bitterness or strange flavors. Though desperate to flee, I forced myself to place her need for comfort above my fear.

Just when I was finally saying my farewells that afternoon, screams echoed from deep within the palace. Guards ran past us down the hall, forcing us to retreat to where the women were huddled together in fear. Eventually a grim-faced official entered to confer with the queens Shapurdukh and Cashmag, the latter of whom swooned on the spot. Shapurdukh was left to relate that a courtier from the house of Mehran had been discovered in the privy, his throat slit.

I was overcome with a wave of nausea, and it was all I could do not to vomit on the beautiful inlaid floors. Ifra was not so fortunate: moments later her stomach rejected the contents of the meal we’d shared.

I shooed away the litter awaiting me, hoping a walk in the cool winter air would calm me. With great relief, I crossed the bridge over the Tigris that separated Persian Ctesiphon from Jewish Machoza. It was as if the calamity at the palace were far away, though if I’d turned around I would have seen the massive edifice looming behind me.

I would have preferred to leave the palace behind in my thoughts as well, but I felt obligated to share my experience with Rava, Yalta, and Rav Nachman. Rava’s immediate reaction was to forbid me to eat anything at the palace until the killers were apprehended. Normally I would have bristled at him ordering me around as if I were a slave, but he had to be aware that I hadn’t been
niddah
again since the ill-fated wedding two months ago, and thus he’d be feeling more protective than usual.

Rav Nachman and Yalta promptly began to discuss all the potential perpetrators, their possible motives, and what each had to gain from the various deaths. It wasn’t long before Rava joined the debate, pointing out, among other things, that not all the dead were necessarily murdered and that it was entirely possible Prince Hormizd had pretended to be ill. There was only one thing they agreed on—Ifra was an innocent who should vacate the palace as soon as possible.

Pleading fatigue, I excused myself to go to bed, for I was exhausted both mentally and physically. It was a sign of how this talk of conspiracies and political intrigue affected me that my last thought, even after reciting the Shema and Ninety-First Psalm, was to wonder if Zafnat had somehow played a role in King Hormizd’s death for the very purpose of inciting all this turmoil.

 • • • 

The Rabbis liked to say that when Adar enters, happiness enters, since the community starts looking forward to that month’s joyous festival of Purim. Alas, that would not be the case for Rav Nachman’s household, for shortly after dawn, we were awakened by loud men’s voices below.

Rava threw on his nightshirt and went to investigate, only to return shortly. “You had best go down.” His voice was grim. “Ifra is here and in a panic.”

I got dressed and, not bothering to wake Leuton to do my hair, raced downstairs. Ifra, as pale as linen, was attempting to drink something, but her shaking hands made it difficult. Her two maidservants flanked her protectively.

As I arrived, Rav Nachman was sending the doorkeepers back outside. “Double the guards at the gate and allow no one . . .” He paused for emphasis. “I said no one, neither from the king’s palace nor from the exilarch, to enter without my permission.”

I sat next to Ifra and steadied her hand so she could drink. “What happened?” I asked Nachman.

He shook his head. “All I know is that she arrived here on foot, completely veiled, and begged to enter. The night guards recognized her and brought her to me immediately.”

It wasn’t long before Rava, now fully dressed, appeared. Yalta made her entrance a short time later. We all turned to Ifra and waited for her story.

“Please excuse me for disturbing you, but I couldn’t think of another place where they wouldn’t find me,” she wailed as tears ran down her cheeks.

“You are welcome here anytime, under any circumstances,” Yalta said soothingly. “Is there something we can get you? Food or more wine?”

“More wine, but well diluted.” Ifra held out her cup but said nothing more.

“I can see you are sorely distressed and reluctant to explain what brought you here,” Rav Nachman said, barely containing his impatience. “But I must know, for your protection and ours, if you might have been followed.”

Ifra shook her head. “I tried to be careful. It was still dark when I took a litter to my father’s.” Her voice wavered as she wrung her hands. “I had them leave us near the gate, but instead of going in, as soon as they left, we walked here.”

Yalta’s relief was palpable. “You must be tired. Do you want to rest?”

“I couldn’t possibly sleep, not now.”

Rav Nachman began pacing the room, and I took Ifra’s hand. “Please, tell us what happened,” I asked her. “Then we can decide how best to help you.”

“King Adhur Narseh has gone mad. He is convinced that his brothers Shapur and Ardeshir were plotting, with their mother’s connivance, to bring Prince Shapur to the throne,” she whispered. “So he had them all arrested, and poor Prince Ardeshir was tortured into confessing.”