Читать книгу The Passion of Mary Magdalen - Elizabeth Cunningham - Страница 13

Maybe you are relieved to know that I was forced into prostitution. Sold. No choice. Some people insist there is no evidence that I was a whore at all; they are eager to save my reputation—which implies that they think there is something wrong with being a whore. It is true that his official chroniclers never called me a whore, just a crazy bitch, or in polite language “a woman infested by seven demons.” (We’ll get to that part later.) Everyone seems to agree that I was saved, cleansed by his healing (asexual) touch and that I went on to become an important, if unacknowledged, disciple.

There is more to the story or I wouldn’t be telling it. And I hope you will discover, if you don’t already know, the difference between a stereotype and an archetype. Stereotypes are flat, one-dimensional, like the donkey you blindly pin the tail on. Archetypes are rich, lush, juicy. Sometimes they go underground, submerge in mist and myth, like the Loch Ness Monster. But I am here to tell you:

You can’t keep a good archetype down.

I didn’t know any of that yet. As I said, I didn’t even know what a whore was, but I must have had a premonition. I knew I was fucked.

“Don’t think you’ll get much out of this one today,” the hulk said, as we turned from a street into an alley where it was a squeeze to walk three abreast. At least here there was some respite from the garishly painted statues and frescoes that assaulted my eyes. You may be accustomed to thinking of the ancient world as full of white columns and torsos missing arms and busts with chipped noses. That’s only because the paint doesn’t last. Think Las Vegas and you’ll be closer to the Rome of my day. “If I was you, I’d clean her up—she stinks of fish—feed her up, and let her sleep for a day.”

“Well, you’re not me, and I don’t pay you to think.”

“You don’t pay me at all, O my mistress and O the delight—“

“Cut the crap, Bone,” she waved away his words with her free hand. “You know I offered you and Bonia manumission years ago, and you wouldn’t take it.”

“Mistress, you have my balls. I can never leave you.”

“I didn’t whip you into that sacrificial frenzy. You know how I feel about those hysterical eastern cults. And manumission or no manumission, with your tips and your side rackets, you’re wealthier than I am.”

“Nevertheless, you are my goddess, my Cybele.”

“Then don’t question my ways, Attis boy. The girl is strong, healthy. It’s never too soon to start getting a return on an investment.”

“But my sweetness.” My sweetness? That hard-faced predatory woman? “You don’t want to put a horse in a chariot race before it’s broken to the harness. Sure way to lose the race and disappoint the bettors.”

“You may have a point, Bone. In any case, I’m turning her over to Bonia. I’m off to the Palatine today. You know where. I’m taking Helen.”

“Yes, I remember. And I beg permission to accompany you, if you will allow me. I believe a certain cubicularius is ready to be indiscreet.”

Apparently one of the eunuch’s many functions was to get the goods on as many highly placed officials as possible in case his mistress ever needed a favor. Espionage and blackmail were a way of life in Rome.

“No, Bone, I need you here today. This one is going to bear watching.”

“But I’ve been softening him up since—”

“The goddess speaks.”

“Oh, all right. Have it your way. You always do,” her devotee sulked.

“Here we are, Red,” the woman addressed me for the first time since we left the Forum.

The alley gave onto a street. Across from us was a portico, the entire wall around it brightly painted. A grape vine and a fig tree framed the doorway, illustrating the name of the establishment. Yes, that’s right: the Vine and Fig Tree, straight out of Hebrew scripture. Both the figs and the grapes had enticing suggestive shapes—visual double entendre. If you missed the point, scantily clad nymphs frisked to the right and the left for almost half a block. The most striking feature of the fresco was the cats, more cats than women, of every stripe and color in every conceivable pose.

The eunuch opened the thick wooden door, and I heard the sound of running water. Among my people, wells and springs were considered sacred, a source of vision and healing, an entry way to the Otherworld. The sound made me homesick, but I couldn’t afford to let down my guard now, so I blinked hard and swallowed my tears. When my eyes focused I saw that I was in a courtyard or atrium. A fruit tree of some kind (not a fig) gave a tiny bit of shade, and the sound of the water came from a fountain—something I had never seen before, because the Celts did not share the Roman obsession with plumbing. All around the rim of the fountain sat cats, sleek, elegant cats—black, striped, calico, orange, grey—watching goldfish dart around the pool. I stared at the small beasts in fascination. Celts had domesticated dogs and of course cattle, but cats—wild cats—I’d only glimpsed at a distance.

“It’s the novica.”

The voice came from above my head. I looked up and got my first glimpse of the women I would come to know more intimately than I knew my mothers. Their barely covered breasts spilled over the balcony railing. They had only just woken up; they looked tumbled, tired, blowsy, their eyes a little smudged or puffy. They were as varied as the cats, a full range of hair and skin color, shape and size. They all stared at me, sizing me up, their new comrade and competition.

“Would you get a load of that hair!”

“She won’t need a lamp in her room.”

“I wonder what kind of dye she uses to get that color?”

“By the tits of Isis, look at her bush. It’s the same color.”

“Oo, I don’t think I’d want to use dye down there.”

“No, stulta, I mean she must have been born that way.”

“That’s enough, ladies,” said the eunuch. His boss had disappeared into the deeper recesses of the house. “Be nice. Sooner she settles in, the better it’ll be for everyone.”

“She can’t understand us, Bone. She’s a barbarian,” said a big blonde woman.

“Oh, really, Berta. Like you’re not,” said a small dark one.

“She speaks Latin like a sailor,” put in Bone, but they ignored him.

“I did not mean it as an insult, Succula. I am proud to be a barbarian. You hear me, proud. Who would want to be Roman?”

My sentiments exactly. I looked at the woman more closely, wondering if she were a Celt. Her accent didn’t seem quite right. But maybe she would be an ally. Maybe she wanted to escape.

The domina, who clearly owned everything and everyone in sight, reentered the atrium followed by a female version of the hulk and two little girls. At the sight of her, all the women turned tail and scurried back to their rooms.

“Here she is, Bonia,” my captor said. “I leave her to you. Bone doesn’t think she should work today, but we’re going to be one short, so you decide. Don’t give her to anyone who doesn’t like some lip. With training, I think she might learn to crack the whip. Until she’s broken in, you’re going to have to keep her on a short leash.

“Helen!” she barked. “I told you to be ready at the sixth hour sharp. Go get Helen,” she instructed the little girls.

Before the little girls had finished mounting the stairs, Helen appeared followed by a woman who seemed to be her hairdresser and make-up designer.

“You like, domina?” the attendant inquired.

“Very nice,” the domina understated.

Helen gave a whole new meaning to the word golden; blonde had nothing to do with it. Her minimal attire was just a shade lighter gold than her skin and hair. She drifted down the stairs as if a slow breeze carried her.

“Yeah, a thousand ships, give or take a few,” commented Bone.

“Go see if the litter is ready,” the domina ordered the girls. “Step on it, Helen. Save the undulating grace for the senator.”

“There’s a girl could go far,” remarked Bonia as the two women left. “If she had any brains, that is. Fortunately for Domitia Tertia she doesn’t.”

That was the first time I had heard my captor’s name. It seemed possible that Bonia might be the sort of person who keeps up a running commentary. I decided to pay close attention.

“Come along, dearie,” Bonia turned to me, giving me a quick once-over. “Not the Helen of Troy type, but I expect you’ll do. I don’t always follow her reasoning, but Domitia knows how to pick ‘em.”

After following Bonia through a confusing series of corridors and rooms, I found myself in a back courtyard off the kitchen that had a high wall and no exit that I could see. Bonia gestured for me to recline on a bench and sent the little girls to fetch wine and food. I ate ravenously—bread with a black paste made of olives, as well as cheese, figs, and grapes. I’d had barely enough food to keep me alive since I’d run away from the mountains in Iberia where I had been the revered, even worshipped, prisoner of a Celtic tribe whose youth, male and female, had been killed or taken captive by—who else—the Romans. One of their remnant had found me washed up and near dead on the shore and the surviving old women had, it is true, saved my life. In return I was supposed to single-handedly—or wombedly—repopulate their village. But I had had other plans. I still had other plans.

After my long fast, the wine hit my veins like a spring flood, weakening my guard. I struggled against the feelings of comfort and familiarity Bonia roused in me. She was big-boned, plain, older than me and completely sure of her place and her purpose. Until I was fourteen I had lived on an island with women only, all of whom had considered themselves my mother and alternately bossed me and spoiled me. When I went away to druid school, the black-robed priestesses of Holy Isle took firm charge of the female students. Now here I was again, being taken in hand by yet another woman, an extremely competent woman. But that did not mean she had my best interests at heart. As little as I understood of my present predicament, one thing was clear to me: the only interests that mattered at the Vine and Fig Tree were Domitia Tertia’s.

“Run along,” Bonia said to the little girls. “Go help old Nona with the washing.”

“We want to watch the one with fire in her hair.”

“Not now. I have to instruct her.”

“We want ‘structions.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry, silly things. Shoo!”

She cuffed them, not too roughly but not too gently either. I stared after the girls. I had been my mothers’ only child, and even after I’d left the island I’d seen few young children. I craved some image of what my daughter, no longer a baby, might look like.

“How old are they?” I asked.

“The little one about four and the other, six, I believe,” said Bonia as she fetched a stool and sat down beside me. “Some of the older ones are being trained to be ornatrices. A good skill for the ugly ones, and the pretty ones will begin to learn the profession from the girls. Domitia Tertia doesn’t hold with auctioning a girl’s virginity till she’s fourteen. In most brothels, they’re doing a full night’s work by age ten. She won’t budge on that rule no matter who’s bidding, and some gentlemen like ‘em barely out of the cradle.”

I still didn’t know—or, more precisely, didn’t want to know—what she was talking about. My stomach lurched, and I took a deep breath, determined to hold onto my lunch.

“You mean she—”

“The domina,” Bonia instructed me. “That is how you should refer to her.”

“She buys little girls…as slaves?” I ignored her directive.

“Mater Matuta! You really are a barbarian. Why would she have to buy little girls? She picks them up off the street, off the refuse heaps.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exposed, dear. Don’t you know? People don’t want the expense of raising a daughter, not more than one or two anyway. The only people with the sense to see the value of female children are the brothel keepers. Moreover, Domitia Tertia has a bit of a bee in her bonnet about infant exposure. No one knows for certain—she doesn’t talk much about herself, not even to me—but the story goes that her father tried to expose her. She was the third daughter, as you can tell from her name.”

“From her name?” I repeated. “Oh, you mean the Tertia part?”

I didn’t yet know of the common Roman practice of naming daughters after the father, distinguishing them only by number.

“Dear me,” Bonia clucked. “For all you appear to understand Latin, I swear you’re more of a barbarian than Berta was when she arrived without a word of any tongue but what they speak in those savage northern places. Always sounds to me like pigs rooting in mud. I better get some idea of what you do and don’t know. First things first. You do understand what the domina bought you for.”

I felt such shame at the idea of being bought at all. I stared down at the remnants of the food. I’d lost my appetite.

“Answer me, girl.” Her voice was sharp as the slap that would doubtless follow. Not that I was afraid of a smack in the face, but there was no point in antagonizing the woman who had immediate charge over me, the first obstacle in my path to escape.

“She bought me to be her slave.” But I am no one’s slave, and I never will be, I added to myself.

“Well, obviously, dear. We’re all her slaves, from the old women to the little girls. It takes a lot of slaves to run a house like this one. Only a few of the slaves are whores. Surely I don’t need to explain to you what a whore does.”

I hated to admit ignorance to this woman who believed she had power over me.

“I am the daughter of warrior witches, who are the daughters of a goddess. I was educated by the Cailleach of Tir na mBan and the druids of Mona mam Cymru. I speak the languages of my people as well as Latin, Greek, and Aramaic. I know that all Romans are greedy, cruel, rapacious, and without honor or honesty. If there’s anything else I need to know, you’ll have to tell me.”

By this time Bonia was whooping with laughter. I would have preferred just about any other response. But she kept right on laughing until she finally sighed and dabbed her eyes with her sleeve.

“What’s so funny?” I demanded. “I just insulted your people.”

“Not my people, dearie. Bone and I are Greek. You’ll find that a lot of slaves come from somewhere else.”

“Then why did you laugh?” I lowered my voice. “Do you hate the Romans, too?”

That started her off again. “No, dear. I don’t bother my head with politics. The Romans rule the world, and that’s that. No, it’s just the domina said you’d be one for cracking the whip. I believe she’s right. She ought to train you herself.”

“To do what?”

“Some gentlemen like to be humiliated, dear. Some gentlemen like a woman who will give them a fight. And some gentlemen like an educated woman. Yes, I think Domitia may have made a good investment. Always a risk, though. The stupid ones are easier to handle. Like our Helen.”

“So,” I said, “a whore is someone who insults people?”

“You really don’t understand, do you?” she sighed. “All right then. Now I know you’re not a virgin. Domitia said you’ve borne a child; I can see that, too. You know what men and women do together, call it what you like. That’s what a brothel sells, dear. Same as a tavern sells drink or a bakery, bread. Men pay for that, and they pay all the more if a brothel is clean and well run, as this one is, and the fare is dished up in exotic and entertaining ways. Now, tell me you understand. I can’t make it much plainer.”

I gaped at Bonia, a surge of adrenaline clearing away the drowsy haze of the wine like a sudden storm. You may have wondered how I could have failed to figure it out before, what with Domitia demanding to know if I was clean, the suggestive frescoes, the semi-clad women. You would have picked up the cues immediately, but I had no context for them. Slavery was bad enough. It had never occurred to me that my body could be sold again and again—to profit someone else. Specifically the hard-faced woman who thought she owned me.

“I will not do that.” The calmness of my voice struck me as bizarre.

Bonia gave me a sharp look, alert for trouble. Until that moment she hadn’t taken me seriously.

“Oh, but you will,” she said. “And if you have a brain in your head, you’ll count yourself lucky. You’ll thank the gods for your good fortune. Wherever you come from, you’re in Rome now. There are brothels here no better than rat holes. And there are whore masters here who will work you till you’re dead. And why not? It’s easy enough to replace a whore, and don’t you forget it. Rome’s crawling with ‘em, and more coming every day. Slave and free. Now Domitia Tertia can be hard. She expects a good night’s work and no nonsense. But she’s fair. More than fair. She lets the girls keep their tips. More than one talented whore has bought her manumission and set herself up with her own business. Most brothel owners wouldn’t tolerate that. They’d be afraid of losing clients, but Domitia Tertia has never stood in the way of an enterprising whore. She’s always held that there’s no shortage of high-class clients. Quality knows quality.”

“You mean there are women who buy their freedom?” I wanted to get this part straight. “And then go on being whores or buying their own whores?”

“Why on earth wouldn’t they? It’s what they know. It’s a good, steady, profitable business. Look at Domitia Tertia.”

“Domitia Tertia, the domina,” I corrected myself when Bonia frowned. “She was—or is—a whore?”

“Domitia Tertia was born the daughter of a senator,” began Bonia, shifting her weight from one buttock to the other, settling herself to tell a favorite story. I recognized the signs. “Her father married her to a close friend of his who was always off trying to advance his career in unsuccessful military campaigns. Now everyone knows men can have mistresses, concubines, and whores by the score. Well-bred young ladies have to keep their legs shut or else sneak around all the while bribing slaves to keep their mouths shut. That didn’t suit our Domitia Tertia. Back in the good old days of Emperor Augustus, when the domina was young, a woman could register as a prostitute to get around the adultery laws. So that’s what she did, and just in time. When that old pervert Tiberius came to power, he closed the loophole. Ever notice how the more depraved a man is, the more he tries to ruin other people’s fun? Of course, even when it was legal under Augustus, a woman had to give up all rights to any inheritance. Being young and headstrong, Domitia cared more about her freedom.

“After a few years of being a high-priced mistress, she found herself out on the street one day. The fancy domus she thought she ruled and all the slaves she thought she commanded belonged to him—and so had she, until he found someone younger to take her place. That was twenty years ago. She learned her lesson. Never be dependent on a man, whether it’s father, husband, or lover. Don’t just own yourself, own everything. That’s her motto. If that makes her greedy and rapacious and whatever else you said about Romans, so be it. But she is not without honesty and honor, and you’d do well to respect her for it.”

“I thought you said she doesn’t talk about herself. How do you know all this?”

“Domitia Tertia doesn’t have to talk about herself. Everyone knows who she is. Even the Emperor. She may have been disinherited, but she’s got the bloodlines, and she’s gotten rich by her own wits. What’s more she knows everything about everyone. People are careful not to cross her. A word to the wise, dearie, Domitia Tertia knows how to cut her losses. She doesn’t give people second chances. If she decides you’re a bad investment, she won’t hesitate to send you straight back to the slave block. Believe me, you won’t have an opportunity like this one again.

“All right then.” She stood up and snapped her fingers for someone to come and clear away the tray of food. “There’s just time for you to have a little cat nap before the baths. Just sleep where you are. I’ll send one of the girls to fetch you when it’s time.”

I closed my eyes and rested my head on my arms. Beside me I heard a soft thud; then something tickled my face. Through half-opened eyes I met a green-gold stare. Then the cat curled against my breasts, purring, and we both went to sleep in the sun.