“I won’t marry Lazar,” Esther said as she dumped a sack of almonds out onto the table.
Miriam took one, then bit into it. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’ll be a good husband.”
“How do you know? Maybe he’ll beat me.”
“And maybe he’ll give you a child and make you beautiful bracelets and rings from soft silver. Don’t you want your own garden, a feather blanket…and a feast? Don’t you want to be carried aloft on the bridal platform—”
“That’s the wedding,” Esther scoffed. “Getting married is not the same as being married. At least, that’s what you always said.”
“Don’t worry. You have plenty of time before anything happens,” Miriam said as she sliced the nuts. Then she dropped them into a bowl with olive oil. “The families haven’t agreed on the bride-price yet. Your mother will bargain hard; she won’t settle for a measly measure of wine and some raisin cake. She’ll insist on heaps of gold. And then the Kallos family will present their demands. Your mother will offer only a few donkeys or cooking pots for your dowry. Believe me, it will take a long time before she parts with any land or coin, and then there’s the feast. You won’t be wed before Passover.”
“No,” Esther said, shaking her head. “Father said it needs to be sealed as soon as we can. He’ll make sure the bargaining is swift. It could be over by the winter solstice.” She paused for a moment, then laughed bitterly. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and the world will end before then.”
“If the End of Days comes, then you’ll have bigger problems to worry about than who to wed,” Miriam said. “I’ve heard all of this talk about the End of Days too. It’s ridiculous.”
“Father says it is, but not Yehuda. Yehuda says the Romans will be crushed in three years and then the End will come.”
“Don’t wait for it.”
“I don’t have to. Marrying Lazar would be the end of my world.” Esther paced the room. “I’d kill myself before I’d marry him.”
“Don’t be dramatic. It’s a sin to talk like that.”
“Then I’ll kill him instead. If I have to marry anyone, at least it should be someone like Joseph. He’s seen the world. He knows languages.”
Miriam gave a knowing smirk. “You’re interested in Joseph because he reads Greek?”
“He’s smart…and handsome.” Esther blushed, then said, “I have to stop the negotiations. Maybe I can write spells on pottery shards, or buy a charm.”
“Just don’t go to Siloam. The miracle-men there sell fake amulets. Go to Zahara’s pub.”
Esther knew where that was; it was the place where Shimon went to drink and gamble. “Remember that time when we dragged Shimon home last winter? You were so worried, and we found him sitting in the back tossing the wine lees onto the walls, so drunk that he couldn’t walk home.”
Miriam nodded, clearly not happy to be reminded. “Zahara’s a harlot, but she knows men-magic.”
“I’ll go tomorrow,” Esther said. “It’s the seventh day of the month.” An auspicious time for spells and magic, when the sun, moon, and stars were aligned.
Esther waited a full minute before knocking. What was she doing here? A daughter of a priest seeking advice from an innkeeper, a woman who spent her day in the company of men—Roman men—plying them with drink? Gathering her courage, she knocked, and a tiny peephole opened, then clicked shut. There was the screech of metal as the iron bolt on the inside slid through the rings on the back of the door, and the door cracked open.
Zahara, a buxom woman with strands of black hair falling out of a hairnet, peeked out. A scowl replaced her look of surprise. “He’s not here,” she said.
“I didn’t come for Shimon.” Esther stepped closer.
Zahara looked impatient. “I’m busy.” She stepped back and started to close the heavy door, but Esther blocked it with her foot.
“Wait, please! I need…I’m to marry, but I—” A scraggly chicken ran toward her and brushed against her leg.
“Catch it!” Zahara screeched.
Esther grabbed a fistful of feathers and handed the squawking bird over. Zahara held it close and pulled Esther inside. She closed the door.
“Don’t let my customers see you,” Zahara ordered as she put the chicken on the floor. Esther felt her stomach churn. They were in a dark hall with a low ceiling. Laughter and noise emanated from a room in the back.
Zahara’s features softened. “What do you need?”
“A potion,” Esther mumbled.
“What kind?”
“The kind that will make someone not want to marry me.”
“Not marry you? That’s a new one.” Zahara put one hand on her hip, which she thrust out. “It will cost you.”
Esther pulled out the coins Miriam had given her.
“That’s not enough for a sack of fava beans.”
Esther reached for the small clay jar tucked in her belt. “I brought this too.”
Zahara pulled off the cork stopper and raised it to her nose.
“It’s face cream,” Esther said. “My mother made it.”
Zahara wrinkled her nose and thrust the jar back. “Get this greasy sheep shit away from me.”
“Please, I need your help.” She couldn’t go back empty-handed.
“Why? Does he have another wife?”
“No…”
“Can he feed you?”
Esther nodded.
“Does he have scaly flesh that oozes pus?”
“No,” she said softly.
“Then get out of here, child.” As she spoke, her arms swished like they were tossing slops from a pail.
“But he’s not the one I love.”
“Love?” Zahara spat. “How do you know what love is? Real love is old and worn-out. It survives one hard, hungry day at a time…if it survives at all.” Zahara looked up at the ceiling; she had a large mole under her chin. “If it survives the day your baby crawls into the puddle by the well and never comes out, or the day your beloved pokes his eye out with an awl…or the night your niece comes to his bed…”
Zahara regarded Esther, as though she were surprised to still see her. “You and your friends from the Upper City think you can buy love, but you can’t. You can’t just wear an amulet, or mix a potion.”
“That’s what you sell.”
“Not to you. You don’t have enough money for magic. You can afford only the truth.”
Zahara shoved her out and slammed the door. Esther stumbled backward.
What now?