by Maggie Anton
Abba stood where he was, waiting. Finally Timonus gestured for Abba to follow him to the pantry. Desperate for information about the big mystery, I tiptoed along behind them. I couldn’t see them, but I could hear Timonus distinctly.
“If Carus is smart, he’ll sack Ctesiphon while King Bahram and the Persian army are still far away in the east attacking Afghanistan,” he told Abba. “But I doubt the Romans would stay to occupy the capital. They’ll loot and pillage, hoping to escape with their plunder before our soldiers return.”
“What about the people?” Abba’s high-pitched voice rose higher with fear. “Will the Romans enslave everyone like they did when they destroyed Jerusalem?”
Poor Abba. He must have been afraid for his home and family. My heart began to pound as I realized that my home and family in Kafri might also be in danger.
“That would take too much time, and the Persian army could easily overtake them,” Timonus assured him. “Remember that the Romans are on foot while the Persians are on horseback.”
Abba might be reassured by this, but I was not.
“You know the city guards,” Abba said. “Have you heard how far the Romans have come?”
I held my breath, both impatient and terrified to hear Timonus’s answer.
“Apparently Carus was at Pumbedita a few weeks ago, and they promptly surrendered when he offered to spare the inhabitants, most of whom had already fled. Though his men stripped the surrounding fields and orchards of their produce, it seems that the city wasn’t pillaged too badly. The Romans can expect far richer plunder in the capital.”
I could hear Abba’s gasp, followed by the sounds of muffled crying. Tears ran down my own cheeks, but I remained quiet.
“Do you want me to continue?” Timonus asked. “There’s not much more to tell.”
Abba blew his nose and must have nodded, because Timonus continued, “There are rumors that Carus reached Nehardea and that his army is still trying to breach the city walls. Others say that the Persian cavalry is less than a week away, so Carus immediately sent his soldiers on to Ctesiphon rather than attempt a lengthy siege.”
My throat tightened. If a week passed before King Bahram and his men returned, the Romans could have enough time to sack the twin cities.
“So our army might arrive first?” Abba suggested, clearly more optimistic than I was. “Until I hear otherwise, I shall pray diligently for it.”
If I had waited for Timonus to reply, he and Abba would have caught me eavesdropping. But I’d heard more than enough to explain the many people staying with us, the shortage of food, and the heavy undercurrent of anxiety in our household.
Ha-Elohim! The Roman army was attacking Persia and very likely, the most populous Babylonian Jewish communities were either destroyed or about to be. If King Bahram were delayed, Carus would surely attack Sura, where Rami’s family lived, once he was done pillaging Machoza and Ctesiphon.
And Kafri was only a few hours downstream of Sura via the Euphrates River.
TWO
ELEVENTH YEAR OF KING BAHRAM II’S REIGN
• 284 CE •
The din was earsplitting. People shouting at the top of their lungs as they ran past me—men yelling, mothers calling for their children, and children crying for their mothers. We fled into the date groves, the Roman army right behind us. But I couldn’t keep up. I kept tripping over fallen palm fronds, and each time I fell it was harder to get up. I could hear the clang of metal on metal growing closer.
“Dada, wake up.” Nurse’s urgent voice penetrated into my mind. “Wake up.”
I bolted awake, my heart pounding, and stared up into the peaceful canopy of the starry night.
“It’s all right, Dada.” Nurse tried to comfort me. “There’s nothing to fear. You were having a bad dream.”
I let her stroke my hair as I looked around. We were on the roof, surrounded by the bundled bodies of my household on their sleeping mats. Grandfather was snoring nearby, and I could hear others breathing heavily farther away. The scene could not have been more peaceful.
Nurse lay down next to me. “Go back to sleep now.”
I snuggled down in my linens and closed my eyes, but sleep would not come. I knew I was safe, but my blood was racing too fast for me to relax. It had been a year since Elohim answered our prayers and the Persian army rode into Ctesiphon before the Romans were able to plunder the city, but I still had nightmares about those frightening days.
Never mind that Emperor Carus died mysteriously—some said he’d been struck by lightning—just as our cavalry began its charge; or that Carus’s son Numerian, who immediately made peace with King Bahram, lived scarcely a year before he too was struck down. Though some said Rome was just waiting for an opportunity to attack us, life in Kafri returned to normal.
Our house had rapidly emptied as the cousins, and cousins of cousins, returned to their homes. Meat appeared on our table again, along with fine wheaten bread. Soon the only reminder of those frightening days were the new students who remained to study with Father after the rest of the refugees were gone.
And my bad dreams.
The hot weather continued, so a few days later Grandfather had us review that day’s Mishna lesson on the roof before bedtime. When we finished, he asked, “Would you like a story tonight?”
“As long as it doesn’t have any kings or soldiers in it,” I replied with a shudder.
“Very well, child. I’ll tell you how Rabbi Shimon ben Shetach vanquished the wicked kashafot of Ashkelon.”
Grandfather had told me many tales of rabbis and demons, but never one with kashafot, witches. Intrigued, I nodded my agreement, and he began the story.
“After Rabbi Shimon became head of the high court in Jerusalem, the people of Ashkelon complained that eighty wicked kashafot in a nearby cave were working to destroy the world. So he waited for a rainy day, then gathered eighty tall young men and gave them each a jug containing a clean, dry cloak.” Grandfather emphasized the word “tall” so I knew this would be important.
“One for each kashafa,” I pointed out.
“Admonishing the men to keep their cloaks dry, Rabbi Shimon led them to the cave.” Grandfather tiptoed across the room, pretending to be Rabbi Shimon. “‘When I whistle once, put on your cloaks,’ he told them, ‘and when I whistle again, enter the cave together, each pick up a kashafa and begin dancing with her, being careful not to let her feet touch the ground.’ Then he put on his dry cloak and went inside, calling out, ‘Oyim, oyim, let me in for I am one of you.’”
“What does oyim mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Grandfather said. “It’s something kashafot say when they summon one another.”
“What happened next?”
“Immediately the head kashafa accosted him and asked how he stayed dry in the rainstorm, and he explained that he’d walked between the raindrops. ‘Show us what else you can do,’ they demanded, but he said they should show him something first.
“So one kashafa uttered a magic word and bread appeared.” Now Grandfather gestured in the air, imitating the kashafot. “A second uttered another word and meat appeared, and a third uttered yet a different word and wine appeared. Then they turned to Shimon and asked him what he could do.”
“He’s going to make the eighty men appear,” I said, my excitement growing.
Grandfather chuckled. “That’s right. Rabbi Shimon told them that if he whistled twice, eighty handsome young men would appear to entertain them. ‘Oh, do bring them,’ the kashafot said eagerly. So Shimon whistled once, waited a few moments, and whistled again. Immediately the men raced in, all wearing dry cloaks.” Grandfather danced around the room, an imaginary woman in his arms. “Each one swept a kashafa off her feet, spun her around, and carried her away to be hanged. For kashafot can only use their evil powers when their feet are touching the earth.”
“Without any trial or witnesses?” I hadn’t listened to Father’s lectures for long, but I knew that nobody cou
ld be executed under Jewish Law unless two witnesses testified and a court convicted them.
His voice became solemn and he sat down. “The Torah says we do not allow a kashafa to live. You know that, Hisdadukh.”
I didn’t want to argue with Grandfather, but I felt sorry for the kashafot. “Speaking of knowing things, how did Rabbi Shimon know that kashafot lose their powers if their feet are off the ground?”
“When I was studying in the West, Rabbi Yohanan taught that all judges on Jerusalem’s high court must have knowledge of witchcraft,” Grandfather said. “So surely Rabbi Shimon, as head of the court, would have been a master of their secrets.”
“Why do judges need to know witchcraft?”
“Some say it’s so they can distinguish between real sorcerers and those who merely create illusions. Others say that judges must know how to counter any spells that kashafot may cast against them.”
I leaned closer and whispered, “Achti says that Father is going to be a judge on Rav Huna’s court, and that’s why we’re moving to Sura. Does Father know about witchcraft?”
“My son-in-law certainly knows about sorcery,” Grandfather said proudly. “Once he was on a boat with Rav Huna’s son when a woman from the exilarch’s court demanded that they take her with them. When they refused, she cast a spell that brought the boat to a halt.”
The exilarch, a descendant of King David, was the head of our community. A member of that noble family had led the Babylonian Jews for a thousand years, since Nebuchadnezzar sent us into exile. When Persia annexed Bavel from the Parthians, the king recognized the exilarch as a vassal lord and allowed us to continue our traditional self-rule. How could a woman from the exilarch’s court be a kashafa?
I had to verify what he said. “She made the boat stop right in the water?” It must have been a powerful spell.
Grandfather nodded. “But Rav Hisda recited his own magic words to start the boat moving again.”
I didn’t know which was more amazing, that Father knew about sorcery or that a Jewish noblewoman did. “Where did he learn such things?”
“When the Holy Temple stood in Jerusalem, its priests were privy to all sorts of secret knowledge,” he said. “Knowledge that had been passed down for generations.”
“But Father’s family has lived in Bavel for centuries,” I protested. “How could they know what was done in the Temple?”
Grandfather smiled. “A father taught his sons, who taught their sons, and so on. Your father comes from a long line of priests, who made sure their wisdom was not lost.”
What other magic did Father know? How did his spells differ from kashafot’s? Did Mother know about this? There were so many questions in my mind that I didn’t know which to ask next.
Before I could say anything, Grandfather stood up and stretched. “That’s enough about spells. Haviva won’t like it if I keep you up past bedtime.”
I looked up, where the darkening sky was sprinkled with stars. “Mother won’t know. She’s in Sura with Shayla, getting our new house ready. They won’t be home for days.”
Shayla was married to my brother Nachman, who was also going to be a judge in Sura, although not on such an important court as Rav Huna’s. Mother used to supervise the household herself, but lately she’d given Shayla more responsibilities.
“She’ll know if your nurse tells her.”
A sudden hope filled me. Rami’s family lived in Sura. “Do you think Mother is arranging my betrothal to Rami bar Chama while she’s there?”
“Not without your father.” Grandfather lowered his voice as though to impart a secret. “Besides, I’m not certain they’ve agreed on Rami. Haviva told me that one good thing about Rome’s attack on Ctesiphon was the additional suitors you might have from among the new students.”
I swallowed hard. I thought Father’s questioning me meant that he’d decided I should marry Rami, or if not him, Abba. Not some strange new student I’d never even considered. It wasn’t fair. Just when I thought the question of my future husband was settled, Mother wanted to consider more possibilities.
A few moments later Nurse stretched out on her mat next to mine, a clear signal that story time was over. Grandfather kissed my forehead and headed for his own bedding. I drifted to sleep picturing Father’s students, and with much trepidation considered which of them I might want to marry if not Rami or Abba. But what if Father didn’t ask my opinion this time? Had he gotten my hopes up only to dash them later?
That week I made an effort to watch, surreptitiously I hoped, those of Father’s students who weren’t already betrothed. Pushing my anxiety aside, I made it a game. Nearly all of them would blush and promptly avert their eyes whenever I caught them looking at me. Rami, however, would smile whenever our eyes met, and if he were the one to discover me watching him, his grin might widen to display his perfect teeth. Abba didn’t look away either, but his smile was more wistful than cheery.
Rami had to be nearly sixteen, the age when Father himself had married. Father often said this was the reason he was a better student than his peers, since being married kept his mind away from sinful thoughts. Not that any of my brothers were wed so young. Despite the teaching of Rabbi Yishmael that Elohim blasts the bones of any man who remains unmarried after the age of twenty, it seemed to me that all my brothers except Pinchas had done exactly that.
I wondered if with my meager arithmetic skills I could sort out how old my brothers were when they married. Yenuka, now thirty-six, didn’t marry Devora until a few years before I was born, and since I was almost ten, he must have been around twenty-three. Nachman got married to Shayla a year later, when he was twenty-one. My brother Hanan, named for Grandfather, married Mariamme shortly after my birth, and since he was twenty years my senior, that’s how old he must have been then. I had a dim recollection of Mari and Rahel’s wedding, so I was probably around four at the time. And since Mari was born the year the Tadmorians destroyed Nehardea, he too married just past the age of twenty.
I went over my calculations just to be sure. If I were to marry Rami, he too would be older than twenty, although only a little older. Nearly all my brothers had wed after twenty and none of their bones were blasted, so it was likely that Rami’s wouldn’t be either. I let out a sigh of relief. I wouldn’t want to marry anyone if Elohim was going to blast his bones.
But if not Rami or Abba, who else? Abaye was a fine student as well as from a priestly family, like Father. But Abaye was already betrothed; I’d heard Father congratulating him. Rav Huna’s son Rabbah said he didn’t like Father’s teaching, and I wouldn’t want a husband who criticized my father. Definitely not Zeira; he was so ugly that no amount of Torah knowledge could make up for it. And while people considered it meritorious for a girl to marry an uncle or cousin, Torah forbade her from marrying a nephew. So I could not even consider Yenuka and Nachman’s oldest sons, no matter how much I might like them.
Father was usually so serious. Was it possible that he’d been teasing me when he asked if I preferred to marry Rami or Abba? I was glad for the opportunity to ask him when I washed his feet after he returned from the date groves. Usually that was Mother’s job, but she was away in Sura. I waited until he was comfortable on one of the benches in the entry hall just outside the traklin. As always, there were jugs of water and empty basins waiting near each bench.
“I was not joking,” he replied, as I poured streams of water over his feet. “Those two are my best students, and I want you to marry a Torah scholar.”
Father was meticulous about washing, so I made sure even the smallest speck of dust had rinsed into the basin below. “Rami is from a priestly family,” I said. Abba was not.
“Abba’s father heads the academy in Machoza, while Rami is an orphan.” Father let out his breath slowly and his body relaxed as I gently massaged his feet while drying them with a soft cloth. Then he cleared his throat. “Hisdadukh, what did you mean when you said you wanted to marry both of them?”
To tell the tr
uth, I had no idea why I’d said what I did; the words had suddenly jumped from my lips. But I had been expecting this question eventually, so I was ready with a proper answer, one that would satisfy Father and prove me a dutiful daughter. “I meant either of them, Father. I wanted you to know that I would be pleased with whichever one you chose for me.”
He smiled and patted my head, but somehow his smile seemed skeptical.
Kafri’s Jewish court met on the second and fifth days of the week, same as market days. Father was the chief judge, so he and his students spent the day listening to the litigants’ arguments. Then Father, sometimes along with Nachman, handed down decisions and explained the law to his students.
So on those two days a week I didn’t listen to Father’s lectures. I spent a fruitless hour or so with my mathematics tutor, multiplying and dividing numbers over and over again on my wax tablet. I couldn’t understand, and neither did he, why I did so poorly at this, especially since Achti was so good at it. I knew the tables by heart, so I could immediately tell him what was six times seven or sixty-three divided by nine. But when it came to multiplying twelve by thirty-four or dividing one thousand sixty-four by nineteen, my mind went blank.
When Achti was sitting with Devora or Mariamme, learning to keep accounts, I spent my time with my other sisters-in-law, Rahel and Beloria, accomplished linen weavers. Beloria also made baskets, Rahel’s decorated pottery was in constant demand, and Shayla was a healer. A stab of anxiety assailed me as I realized that each of my sisters-in-law had a skill in addition to spinning and weaving linen. My knowing how to study Mishna wouldn’t bring extra income to my future household, but I had no intention of stopping. Not when Grandfather needed my help.
I did my weaving on Mother’s and my sisters’-in-law looms when they were not using them. I couldn’t weave as fast as they did, but at least they didn’t pull out my threads anymore. Soon I’d be tall enough to weave even at the very top of the loom instead of having to wait for someone else to finish the material. One of the best things about my weaving was that I no longer had to think about it and could concentrate on remembering Father’s lessons.
