Читать книгу The Passion of Mary Magdalen - Elizabeth Cunningham - Страница 17

Yes, me. Whoever that was. Red, the hot new whore at the Vine and Fig Tree? After a few weeks it became apparent to everyone that my popularity was not just due to novelty. The plaque hanging by my door was no longer blank but crowded with my praises. I had an aptitude for the work, unmarred by my bad attitude, which seemed, if anything, an asset. I fit the bill as Savage Barbarian better than Berta who had more appeal as the kindly, maternal, all-forgiving type despite her avowed hatred of Romans.

Every day was much like another. We slept through the morning; then we ate, bathed, submitted to the ornatrices before working non-stop from mid-afternoon till near dawn. I had little time to think. But whenever I had a moment to myself, I was plagued by the same sense of disjuncture I had felt that first morning. I could not connect my past and present. I had been born of hero-women and raised as one. I came from a world where everything—rocks, trees, wells, winds, the flight of birds—was a form of oracular speech, where the very earth under my feet was alive and holy. Confined as a slave within square walls (for I was on probation and not allowed outside) with tile floors between me and the dirt, I felt as you might if you suddenly had to operate without one of your senses. I, who had once shape-shifted into a bird, who could see across worlds in the waters of a sacred well, I had no magic anymore. After a while I gave up gazing into the artificial fountain. Among the milling carp, no salmon of wisdom would ever leap.

But there was something more troubling still: I feared I had lost my story. The story I had been so sure of that I’d told it to a festival crowd on the Druid Isle, the story birds’ wings had once spread across the sky, the story that had been my offering to the dolphins who kept me alive when I was cast out to sea. The story of Maeve and Esus.

The more time passed, the more desperate I became. How was I to remember him? Did he remember me? If you’ve ever loved and lost someone when you were very young, then you know what it’s like. You cling so tight to your memories—as if they are air and water—and then one day you open your hand and find nothing there. My dream troubled me. He whose gaze held the mystery of the heavens, whose very hair felt alive to my touch, how could a coffin contain him? He was not dead; he could not be. But if I lost hope of finding him again, I would die. I had to find some way to keep the story alive.

So one day I yielded to Berta’s curiosity and began to tell the story to the other whores during our baths. It was far too grand a story for one sitting, so I told it in daily installments.

The response was gratifying.

“And so, Red,” someone would prompt. “What happened next?”

“Where was I?” I would pretend not to remember.

“You got to the part about the three black-robed priestesses standing on the cliffs watching you in your little boat. That made my hair stand on end.”

“And the birds in the sky,” someone added. “They spelled your name—and his.”

And I would resume the story, spinning it out fine, so that they could see, hear, and feel it all with me, so that I could live it again, believe that it was true. Though my mothers had told me everything but the truth about my own begetting—and I had come to great grief because of it—there was part of me that still accepted their axiom: A story is true if it is well told. So I gave it all I had.

And then, one day, my story was done.

“Ah, liebling,” sighed Berta, wiping away her tears. “So romantic. Now you can be faithful to your Esus forever.”

“Berta,” said Dido, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “She’s a whore.”

“That is what I mean. Wife to all men is wife to no man. A whore is like a virgin. In her heart she belongs only to her true love. Like me and my poor butchered betrothed.”

No, I wanted to shout. I am not like you, and my beloved is not dead.

“I will find him” was all I said.

“Yah, liebling. Sure you will.” Berta patted my arm.

I wanted to scream.

“Listen, Red—”

“Dido,” Succula pleaded. “Be nice.”

“I like you.” I could feel Dido’s gaze, but I wouldn’t look at her. “We all like you. You’re a good sport. You told a good story. Whether it’s true or not is beside the point. I’m telling you this for your own good. Get over it. He’s gone. You’re here. That was then. This is now.”

An aphorism not invented at the turn of your millennium. I looked down at my navel. Little flakes of faux woad floated in the water. Domitia Tertia had agreed to let me dress—or undress—the part of a barbarian. The past few nights, I’d dispensed with my toga and gone to work in blue paint. I felt ashamed now. I had betrayed my people—and my warrior queen namesake—by play-acting a stock character in a Roman fantasy.

“You do know,” Dido continued, enough kindness in her voice that I couldn’t just hate her, not hear her, “that if he survived the journey—and it must have been a long and dangerous one—and made it back to his own people, he’s probably married by now. Maybe he’ll always remember you; maybe he’ll even love you, for what that’s worth. But Red, honey, life goes on. Don’t waste yours.”

“I don’t have to waste it.” I could taste the bitterness of my words; I savored it. “Domitia Tertia is wasting it for me.”

“Diobolara!” Succula, my sometime lover who had been nestling beside me, drew back and practically spat. In case you are wondering, she had just called me a two-bit whore. “You are spoiled, as spoiled as our baby Queen Helen of Troy here.”

“Eat me,” said Helen languidly, not ruffled at all.

“Maybe you like it here, because you’ve never known anything else,” I shot back. “Though how you can defend a woman who raised you just so she could sell your virginity to the highest bidder is beyond me.”

“You know nothing about it, Red, so shut up. We’ve all heard your story, daughter of the shining isles. Not one mother, no, she has to have eight. You want to hear my story? I wasn’t exposed as a baby,” Succula hurtled on, “though if my mother had been looking out for herself, she should have left me in a ditch. So I know about the streets. I lived on them till my mother died under a bridge, right where the sewer empties into the Tiber. There’s no dole in Rome for women and children. Did you know that, Red? Only for men. My mother worked the streets till she got sick. Sometimes we rented a room, mostly not. I tried to take care of my mother. I begged. I stole food, but she died anyway, and I was all by myself, fair game for any and everyone.

“That’s when Domitia Tertia found me. This great rich domina in a stola—she never did wear a toga; she likes breaking stupid laws. And you know what she did, hard-ass, kiss-my-ass Domitia Tertia? She paid for my mother to be buried properly in a catacomb with her name inscribed on a plaque. And she gave me a place at the Vine and Fig Tree. I had food every day and a warm place to sleep.

“When it came time for the auction, I wasn’t ignorant. The other whores had been getting me ready, training me. Before the auction there was a party for days and days, and I was the queen of it all. It was like being a bride but better, because I wasn’t going to have to leave home to be some man’s property and see his ugly face day after day. I was going to have a nicer room and more clothes. I was going to be one of the whores.

“And it wasn’t like just anyone was allowed to bid. Honey, it was invitation only. You had to be rich. You had to be a gentleman. You had to pass Domitia Tertia’s personal—and I mean personal—inspection. On the day of the auction, while the men were bidding up front, I was in back with the whores. Remember, Berta?”

“Yes, I was there, still a novica. We had wine and the best cakes I’d ever tasted.”

“And I stood in the middle of you all, and everyone oiled me and perfumed me and put flowers in my hair and made wishes for me. And sweet Isis, I didn’t feel like a whore or a bride. I felt like a goddess.”

“You were, liebling, you were.”

“I was so high, I wasn’t really scared. Or only a little. My cherry burst with a tiny ping, and I thought well, that’s that. No big thing. While the senator thought he was on Mount Fucking Olympus with Aphrodite in her nightie.”

Everyone laughed, and the tension was dispersed for a moment.

“That’s a good story,” I said to Succula.

“And it’s true. Do you understand now, Red. Why I was so mad at you?”

“Yes, but—”

I didn’t finish the sentence, and no one pressed me. Succula leaned against me again. I looked up and found Dido still watching me.

“What about you, Dido?” I asked. “What is your story?”

If eyes are the windows of the soul, she had just drawn the curtains.

“I don’t tell my story, Red. It’s the one thing I have that’s all mine.”

I don’t think Dido meant to wound me, but her words went in deep, piercing me in all my vital parts. No, it wasn’t the words; it was their truth, a truth I already knew. Now my story was outside of me, dispersed on the air; worse, given some fixed form, like those Roman statues, lifelike but not alive. So why am I telling you my story now? Did I learn nothing from that loss? Yes, I did. Only now I know more. Dido knew one secret: don’t tell. In time, I discovered another. Tell, lose, tell again. Live, die, live again. Let the story change. Let the story change you.

Then, all I knew was the loss.

Losses that are invisible or unreal to others can be hard to bear. There are no ritual releases. No funeral rites, no mourning garb. Now I did not even have words. The words I thought would give me back my life had betrayed me. Hardest of all was the sense that my life had been diverted—the way the Romans took free flowing water and made it go where they wanted. And I was left behind, as I had been in that terrible dream, helplessly tangled in the weeds while the river kept going.

Then one night the river tossed me something tantalizing, brought it almost—but not quite—within my reach.

It was early evening, and business at the house was slow; people were still at their banqueting. I was learning a lot from the cats and tended to drowse when I could. I came to abruptly when someone smacked the back of my head.

“Lolling is one thing. Snoring and drooling are another.” It was Bonia. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you or gone out of you. You’ve been off the mark lately, and after such a promising start. Remember the rules: only drink with a gentleman if he wants the company and no unwatered wine! There’s no place in this house for sodden whores. Now look lively. Domitia Tertia is here tonight with an important guest. He likes to meet the new girls. You’re still on probation, and his opinion counts a lot with the domina.”

The idea that anyone could have influence on Domitia Tertia was mildly intriguing, but I found it difficult to feel much of anything—excitement or fear. Yet when Domitia Tertia strolled into the reception rooms with her visitor all my senses went on the alert before I quite knew why.

The man at her side appeared to be her contemporary, that is, not young, not old, greying, in good enough health, but a little stooped, his bearing neither military nor athletic, and he had a squint. He wore a simple but well-made tunic of good material. His face was clean-shaven, though the hair on his head was thick and somewhat longer than typical. Then he made some remark. I couldn’t catch all the words, but I knew he was speaking Greek, not unusual among educated Romans, except suddenly I knew he wasn’t Roman, nor was Greek his native tongue. I would bet my tiny stash of tips on it.

He caught me looking at him; cat-like, I looked away, pretending he hadn’t been the object of my scrutiny. I knew that I was now the focus of his. In another moment I sensed his approach, but I was totally unprepared for his greeting.

“Rhuad,” he said, and he continued to speak to me in Celtic. “You must find it strange to live in square walls in a walled city. Are you from Gaul or from Pretannia?”

At that moment, I looked as though I came from the goldfish pool. I gawped like a carp. It wasn’t only that he was the first person to address me in my own language. It was his accent.

“Who are you?” I demanded rather gracelessly. “How do you know my language? If you are a Jew, what are you doing in a Roman whorehouse?”

I hurled these questions at him in Aramaic.

Now it was his turn to look like a fish out of water.

“Can you speak Greek?” he finally managed.

“Yes, and Latin, too, though I’d rather not.” I said in Greek.

“Finally,” he said in Greek, “an educated girl. How many times have I told Domitia Tertia, she could have a house full of witty, lettered women, like the heterae who had their own schools in Athens. Do you mind if we converse in Greek? My mind always feels clearer when I do.”

“We can speak whatever language you prefer as long as you answer my questions.”

For a moment he frowned, his squint even more pronounced, then—as if he’d had to think about it first—he decided to laugh.

“You certainly are bold, but I’m not surprised, having done business with some of the women of your people. May I sit?”

I made a welcoming gesture. I liked his deference, his apparent desire to converse. There was a charge for talk, of course, though perhaps this friend of Domitia Tertia’s had special privileges.

“Please,” I said, “am I right that you are from …from Galilee?”

“Galilee! No. Do I look like a peasant to you? I am from Judea, from Arimathea, a town between the port of Joppa and the city of Jerusalem.”

Jerusalem. I wrapped my arms around myself to keep my hands from shaking.

“I am in the tin trade and have traveled often to the Pretannic Isles. As a merchant, I must have a base in Rome—though it is a crass place, its arts and letters but a crude imitation of the Hellenic.”

“But you live near Jerusalem,” I persisted.

“When I must.” He was abrupt. “Why are you so interested in Jerusalem? How do you come to speak Aramaic? I have never heard it spoken among the Keltoi. It is time for you to answer some questions, Rhuad.”

“Maeve Rhuad,” I said before I could think. “My name is Maeve Rhuad.”

He bowed his head. “And my name is Joseph.”

Joseph! “I am Yeshua ben Joseph ab Jacob ab Matthan…” my beloved had said to the druids, tracing his lineage much further than the required nine generations, keeping us up all night with the story of his people.

“Do you have a son?” I blurted out.

“Why do you ask me that?” He was wary and, I sensed, pained.

“Your name—”

“—is a very common one.” He cut me off. “Now then, am I to presume that you know a young Galilean Jew whose father is named Joseph? How did that come about?”

Now I was wary. I did not want to tell my story again, to make polite conversation about the ripped out, broken heart of my life. I just looked at him, and then, for the first time since my capture, I had a flash of second sight—more than sight. I could smell the sea, and hear the sound of wind in a sail, feel the pitch of the boat. Joseph was there with someone else—someone I couldn’t see, someone I sensed he was helping.

“Take me with you,” I heard myself saying. “Take me to Judea. Buy me from Domitia Tertia. You have influence with her. She will sell me to please you. And I will do whatever you want. Anything. Just take me with you out of Rome.”

He looked at me intently; when he did not squint, his eyes were appealing, their expression gentle. I looked away so he couldn’t read my face. I regretted my outburst. Now he would tell Domitia Tertia I was desperate to escape.

“You give me no reason why I should do such a thing,” he said at last. When I didn’t answer he added, “and you greatly overestimate my powers. I am an old friend of Domitia Tertia’s and an investor. I sometimes give her financial advice. But I don’t tell her how to run her business. I never interfere between her and one of her girls.”

Then I did something that, given my profession, you may be surprised to know I had never done before. I turned my face to him and looked up through my lashes. I drew on all my fire and concentrated it in my eyes. I called on the waters to well and make them shine. I held him with my eyes, for just the right space of time, and then I spoke softly, so softly he had to lean into me and breathe my scent.

“Never?”

He closed his eyes and took me in through his pores.

“Never,” he sighed, and opened his eyes again. “But I will tell you what I will do. I will buy you a night of rest, and I will come and lend you scrolls from my library.”

“I do not read,” I said proudly. “Reading destroys the memory.”

“Nonsense!” he growled. “I see you must have been in training with the druids. I didn’t know they taught women. It is an unfortunate bias on their part. If your literature is only in your head, it can be destroyed with your people. Listen, I will teach you to read Greek and as much Latin as necessary. I will come every day when I am in Rome.”

“How about Hebrew?”

He squinted at me again. “Greek first.”

“You never did answer my questions,” I reminded him. “Are you a Jew? And if you are, what are you doing here at the Vine and Fig Tree?”

“Don’t tell me you’re a proselyte,” he groaned.

“Answer my questions, please.”

“All right, all right. I am a Jew, yes, and of a prominent family. I hold an inherited seat on the Sanhedrin. But does that mean that I must be ignorant of the great ideas and literatures of the world? Because I have read Plato and Aristotle does that make me a gentile? Because I must do business in Rome, am I a collaborator?”

He was arguing with someone—but clearly not with me. Maybe with someone like my beloved, someone he’d like to dismiss as a Galilean peasant.

“And the rest of my question?”

“What am I doing in a Roman whorehouse? Come, show me to your room, and I will answer you.”

Well, maybe it was a dumb question. What is any man doing in a whorehouse?

Despite my status as a probationer, I was pretty seasoned by now, a quick learner, everyone said. But that night my native shamelessness faltered. This man knew something of my people. He knew what a free Celt looked like—I was glad I had given up my imitation woad and resumed the whore’s toga. More inhibiting still, this man might have stood beside my beloved in the Temple of Jerusalem. To my dismay, my hands began to shake again as I undressed; then my whole body trembled uncontrollably with a sudden chill.

Still fully clothed, Joseph came and put his arms around me. His touch was as gentle as his eyes. He murmured comforting words—in Hebrew, a language I had never heard except in my beloved’s voice. I couldn’t help it; I broke down and wept.

“There, there,” he soothed, and he put me to bed. “You have known sorrow. I have known sorrow. We will not speak of it,” he said in Aramaic. “Not tonight. Tonight you will rest. I will stay with you until you sleep. Rest now, Maeve Rhuad.”

I closed my eyes and hoped he would think I was sleeping. His kindness was too much. I didn’t want to trust anyone. I didn’t want to love anyone. I didn’t want anyone to love me. Not here. Not now. Not this way.

I must have fallen asleep; I did not hear him go. I woke much later when the house was finally dark and quiet, my favorite cat, a golden tabby named Olivia, purring next to my heart.