Apprentice (72 page)

“Rava, I am not doing this to torture you.” I should have known that he would never tease me as easily as Salaman had. “I need to get back to Sura. I've wasted enough time already.”

“I don't understand.”

“It wasn't your fault that Yehudit died, and in truth the
kashafa
in Sepphoris wasn't responsible either.” I had been thinking about this a great deal, and the answer had come to me in Caesarea. “I was to blame, for it was my ignorance and foolhardiness that caused her death. I had been cautioned, not once, but twice, that it was dangerous for me to inscribe amulets in Sepphoris. But I ignored the warnings.”

I fought back tears. “I was always protected from harm in my father's house, so I never imagined that protection would end. I played at being a
charasheta
, inscribing amulets and installing
kasa d'charasha
, without fully realizing the powerful forces I was dealing with. My daughter paid the price for my folly, and I would have died too if not for you.”

“You didn't just play at being a
charasheta
.” His voice was resolute. “You were one. I saw you.”

“When? What did you see?” Heaven forbid that he'd seen me in the cemetery assisting Tabita to curse Pushbi.

“Rami told us about what you were learning and how he hid to watch you bury bowls under someone's house,” he explained. “It sounded so intriguing that I decided to follow you the next time. Rami was right—you were impressive. You truly had the power, Hisdadukh. You were a
charasheta
.”

Rava's reassurance warmed me, so I shared my goal. “That is why I need to be in Bavel, to continue my training. I'm going to be a real
charasheta
, not merely an amateur who dabbles in it.”

He gazed at me intently, silently encouraging me to continue.

My voice rose with my determination as the Sea of Tiberias shrank in the distance behind us. “I'm going to study with all the experts, learn everything they know, so I can be the best, the wisest, the strongest
charasheta
possible. I want to be so powerful that no
kashafa
, no demon, no Evil Eye will be able to hurt me or anyone I love again.”

I can't say exactly how, but I sensed the Heavenly Host applauding while a myriad of demons cringed in trepidation.

S
pending every waking moment, and my sleeping ones, in Rava's presence was more awkward than I'd anticipated. He always got up first, and I never became accustomed to waking up in the morning, rolling over in my bedding, and seeing a man who wasn't my husband or brother putting on tefillin. It seemed such an intimate act that I felt self-conscious watching, yet purposely turning away would be rude. For his part, Rava made it a habit to go outside and pray the morning service shortly after I woke, thus allowing me to dress and use the chamber pot in private.

I felt particularly discomfited at bedtime. During previous journeys, I'd given no thought to us all sleeping naked in the same tent. That's how everyone slept, and it didn't matter that Samuel and I weren't close family. But on this trip I was acutely aware that Rava was lying only a few cubits away, as naked as I was. Not that I ever saw him without his clothes. Each of us undressed discreetly inside our bedding, and Leuton made a special effort to protect my modesty.

There wasn't much else to do during those long days traveling, so I helped Rava review Mishna. Unlike Grandfather, who had trouble recalling the text, Rava urged me to question him thoroughly, find contradictions, and challenge his logic. His surprise at how well I remembered the Mishna pleased me immensely, and he often complimented me on the many Baraita I'd managed to learn in the West. I soon realized how much I preferred his praise of my knowledge to Salaman's praise of my beauty.

Rava's great fear, so he told me, was that months in the West had dulled his previous sharpness and left him unprepared to return to the rigors of Rav Yosef's classes in Pumbedita. Since this lapse was on my account, I felt obligated to assist him. Not that our studies were a burden. In truth I found them so stimulating that sleep became difficult, with so many arguments chasing around my mind, especially the perfect replies that I only thought up later. When I complained to Rava about this, he said that many students could craft an excellent retort long after the debate, but only the best could do so at the appropriate moment.

One of our more vehement arguments was over a Mishna in Tractate Yevamot concerning how a widow could testify to her husband's death, an important subject for women since unless the husband's death was confirmed beyond a doubt, she was not allowed to remarry. Normally a
beit din
required two male witnesses before making a judgment, but in this case a woman's testimony was accepted. Yet there were conditions.

We began with the Mishna, which stated: “If a woman went with her husband beyond the sea, and there was peace between them and peace in the world, and she returned and said ‘my husband died,' then she may remarry…. But if there was peace between them and war in the world, or conflict between them and peace in the world, and she returned and said ‘my husband died,' then she is not believed.”

I immediately questioned him. “Why would we not believe her in wartime? That is precisely the time when we would expect many men to die.” It disturbed me to imagine all the women widowed during wartime who would be left in limbo by this law.

“That is exactly the problem,” he admonished me. “During a war she might say what she believed to be the truth, without being certain.” He paused, and I knew he was thinking of a way to bolster his position. “Such as after a battle when so many were killed that she'd think it impossible for him to have survived.”

I didn't like it, but I had to admit his reasoning was good. “What about in a famine?” I asked, thinking of the Jews in the West suffering in this Sabbatical year. “Since there was peace between them, do we believe her then?”

He shook my head. “Famine is like wartime. She might leave her starving husband to find food elsewhere, and then assume he died, when actually someone came along and fed him.”

“I suppose you're right about famine.” I made no effort to hide my dissatisfaction
that only an actual body could confirm a man's death, ignoring the dire consequences for his widow.

“Famine is worse than wartime, for in wartime she is believed if she says he died in bed, but not if she says that he died in battle.” Rava's voice rose in response to my upset. “While in famine, we don't believe her unless she says she buried him.”

“But what if we only know about the war from her?” I countered. “Shouldn't we believe her regarding her husband's death, since she could easily have said that he died without mentioning the war, and then she would have been believed without question?” I was determined to refute him.

He took a deep breath and seemed to force himself to answer calmly. “No. The ‘why would she lie?' argument does not apply. Any woman saying her husband died during wartime may have come to that conclusion without having seen him dead herself.”

This so infuriated me that I was momentarily speechless. I was searching for a way to rebut him, when he quoted a relevant Baraita: “If she says their house was on fire, and that he died while she escaped, she is not believed.” He added, “Thus, like your situation, in which we only know about the war or fire from her, we do not believe her.”

“But the Baraita is different—you cannot use it to support your position,” I objected. “For just as she managed to escape, he too may have escaped.” By Rava's look of surprise, I knew I had impressed him. I couldn't resist the urge to grin, even though I had undermined my personal opinion.

He stopped to think again. “I heard of a similar case concerning a fire, where the wife called to the bystanders to save her burning husband, and when the fire was out, they found a charred body,” he said. “But Rabbi Chiya refused to let her remarry, saying that her husband could have escaped and the body might be that of another man, perhaps one who'd tried to rescue the occupants.”

“I have another Baraita for you,” I countered, elated that I'd recalled one so pertinent to our debate. “It teaches that if a wife says her husband died when they were attacked by bandits or idolaters, she is believed. So why shouldn't we believe her in regard to wartime?” My narrowed eyes dared him to refute me.

“That Baraita teaches us nothing,” Rava shot back. “Here we can assume that she was with her husband until he died, for her captors wouldn't
harm her if she remained.” He looked at me in triumph, but it was different from the arrogant smirk he'd worn when he used to best Rami. “For the Rabbis say that a woman's defensive weapons are always in her possession.”

For a moment I was dumb with outrage. “You can assume nothing of the kind.” I was so angry my voice was shaking. “For a woman will certainly try to escape her captors rather than remain to be raped. And any decent husband will want her to.”

Rava remained silent for some time before throwing up his hands in defeat, but his eyes blazed with excitement. “I don't think I've ever enjoyed losing an argument before.” He paused and his voice became serious. “However, I suggest next time we study something that doesn't apply to a couple traveling through lands where bandit attacks occur.”

I gulped, as these were exactly our own circumstances. “You'll get no argument from me on that,” I said with a grin. I wanted him to know that I too had enjoyed our debate.

Rava and I had other exciting disputes, but that was the only time I defeated him. He was always a gracious winner, applauding when I gave him a particularly good battle. As in my earlier journeys, our caravan spent Shabbat at an oasis. To my surprise and delight, our final stop before we reached the Babylonian border had an abundance of hot springs. The town, hoping to lure travelers who appreciated such luxuries in the West, had built several decent bathhouses. One had a few female attendants, although their services were surely not intended for the rare woman client.

I circumvented the problem of mixed bathing by saying I needed a private pool, deep enough for me to immerse properly, and the leering proprietor was only too happy to provide one. My offer to pay twice what he charged the men only made him happier. As this might well be my last bathhouse visit, I took the time to thoroughly appreciate the experience by luxuriating in the steaming water, followed by a lengthy massage. The oil contained more labdanum and myrrh than the floral aromas I'd come to prefer, but the attendant said it was all she had that was appropriate for a woman.

When I returned to our tent, I was not surprised to find it empty. Leuton and Rava's slave utilized the Day of Rest to its fullest, ferreting out what entertainment they could at the oases. I was trying to decide whether to review Mishna or take a nap, when the doorway opened and Rava entered.

“You should enjoy one of the bathhouses here,” I exclaimed. “Who knows when you'll get another such opportunity?”

He secured the tent flap and gazed at me intently. “Your hair is wet…and you're wearing perfume.”

“I just returned. At first they didn't want to give me my own pool, but I insisted that I needed to immerse.” As soon as the word was out of my mouth, I realized what I was implying.

He did too, for he said softly, “Then you are no longer
niddah
.”

He slowly walked toward me, but instead of backing away I looked up at him. His large dark eyes burned with desire, an expression I hadn't seen in so long that its intensity overwhelmed me. My body reacted instinctively, and I was flooded with a yearning to throw myself into his arms.

He recognized my response and closed the distance between us, but he didn't touch me. He nervously licked his lips, and I suddenly saw how his full beard made him look almost handsome.

I kept my eyes on his and whispered, “You are correct.” The pool had been a proper
mikvah
, and I had immersed completely, even my hair.

Desire and fear warred within me. The former prevailed as, heart pounding, I took a small step toward him. Then, afraid that he would kiss me if I closed my eyes, I continued to gaze at him. My
yetzer tov
was insisting I turn around and walk away, while my
yetzer hara
even more strongly urged me to get nearer.

Rava must have been battling his
yetzer hara
as well, for he seemed paralyzed except for his rapid breathing. The closed tent was like an oven, and the scent of labdanum was intense. Sweat began dripping down our faces, yet we stood staring into each other's eyes for what seemed like an eternity. The heat between my legs was rivaling that in the air and my flesh longed for his touch, but I couldn't move.

“We are neither of us virgins, and you have refused to accept my
get
,” he finally said, his voice husky with longing.