Читать книгу The Passion of Mary Magdalen - Elizabeth Cunningham - Страница 37

The only thing that kept my first day from being as tedious as countless days to follow was the novelty. I might as well tell you about it, because then we can skip over days and weeks and months at a time. After the labor-intensive toilet, we enacted the fraudulent tableau of the industrious matron in a room adjoining the antechamber where Appius Claudius spent the morning receiving his clients. He lolled in purple-trimmed splendor on a sumptuous couch cushioned not only by pillows but by his own rolls of fat. His crown of laurels—too small for his thick, bald head—was frequently rearranged by one of the pubescent boys who clustered around him, a phalanx of overgrown cupids. Although Berta claimed that she had serviced him standing on his head, I did not recognize him as a Vine and Fig Tree regular.

I did, however, know many of the men lining up to flatter, deal, or receive their private dole. Some of them stopped by to greet the lovely, virtuous young matron, but, to my initial surprise, none of them gave any indication that he remembered me. Considering that I’d given most of them blow jobs, you’d think the top of my fiery head alone would jog their memory. How could I be so forgettable? For a while I tried to tell myself that I was simply out of context for them, but there was no point in hiding from the truth. Unless they wanted something from me, I was just a brand x slave girl.

“Stop gaping at your betters,” Paulina reprimanded me. “By Hestia, your thread is even more uneven than mine.”

It wasn’t true, but there was no point in arguing. Hestia help me, I might as well turn my attention to the spinning, get good enough at it so that I could lose myself in the rhythm of it, disappear into mindlessness.

As the clients thinned out, various slaves reported to Paulina. The social secretary, the courier, the chef, among others. They all pretended deference to her. And although Paulina was rude and capricious, she only played at giving orders. She wasn’t really interested in the workings of her household, and her slaves had no intention of taking direction from her. Paulina, I realized, had no more power or responsibility than a child.

After some mid-morning refreshment, which she did not share with me, Paulina perked up. It was her favorite part of the day: shopping. She rode in a litter to the markets followed by six slaves, including me. When she alighted to bargain and haggle and pick over merchandise, we were there to carry her purchases: costly fabrics—so much for weaving her own cloth—make-up, exotic beauty treatments like asses’ milk and Nile River mud packs, absurd hair ornaments, perfumes, and when we came to that part of the market, food delicacies such as pickled larks’ tongues and jellied eels.

At the end of the morning, we headed for the women’s baths where the leading matrons held the first century equivalent of a coffee klatch before resuming their duties as hostesses at the midday banquet. They all had half a dozen slaves with them, who waited in the foyer till they were needed to redo their mistress’s hair and makeup. I hung back with the others, relieved to have a break from Paulina. But when she discovered I hadn’t followed her, Paulina came back and yanked me by the hair (in the absence of a leash).

“You are to stay with me unless I dismiss you! Is that quite clear?”

None of the other matrons seemed to think it strange that Paulina wanted me in the bath with them. In fact, some of them had their own pets—eunuchs, little boys, and a couple of other women like me. You could tell us apart by our silence and our downcast eyes. Later I would understand that smart slaves, while appearing deaf, dumb, and blind, listen to every word. That first day the words just flapped over my head like so many birds. No, birds I might have paid attention to.

By the time we returned for the midday banquet, which was attended by at least half of the people who had fawned on Claudius that morning, I was exhausted, ravenous, and snappish as a wild beast. Paulina ordered me to sit by her feet while she reclined and sampled appetizers brought round by slaves—olives, cheeses, tiny meat pastries—that were not offered to me. Now and then Paulina tossed me a tidbit, which I stubbornly refused to touch. If I was to be an animal, I decided, I would not be a tame animal. I would not take something from her hand unless I took with it a part of her hand, a well-manicured finger or two. Almost as if she sensed my mood, Paulina dangled a pastry just under my nose as if daring me to lunge.

Then suddenly her whole body stiffened. She stuffed the morsel into her own mouth and rose from her couch.

“Pater!” she called out, hiding her hands behind her back like a guilty child caught sneaking a treat.

I peered around Paulina and saw a spare silver-haired man crossing the dining room. He did not smile upon seeing his daughter but held his face and body rigid—it was a wonder he could move at all; he looked as though nothing in him would bend.

I recognized him, I realized, not his face but his rigidity. I had held it in my arms. It had been like fucking a marble column. No, he had been lighter than that, for he had never trusted his weight to me. He had kept his body stiff and still, barely allowing himself to breathe, while I did all the work. Before he came (it had taken forever) he grunted as if he were trying to pass a hard stool, his face strained and purple, all the veins on his brow alarmingly engorged. “Don’t worry,” Succula said when I described him to her later. “He’s not a regular; he only shows up once every couple of years.”

Now in full command of himself, Publius Paulus greeted his daughter gravely, pecking her on both cheeks and sniffing as he did so. The original breath test. Overindulgence in wine was considered unseemly in women—another thing for which a husband or father could strangle a woman if he saw fit. Paulina, I noticed, was trembling.

“Pater.” The word came out almost as a whimper. “I’m so glad you could come.”

“Thank you, filia,” he answered formally. “I rejoice to find you in good health.”

Then Pater got down to business. Without looking at me, he pointed in my direction. “What is that?”

Conversation had lulled. Only Appius Claudius was oblivious to the tension in the room as he brayed on and on recounting some tedious joke.

“She’s my new slave, Pater. I’m training her to be my pedisequa. You said I could have her.” Her flimsy attempt at defiance degenerated into wheedling almost instantly. “Remember? She’s the one who insulted me at domus Anecius. I’ve disciplined her myself, and Appius Claudius made a speech about how important it was for the safety of all Roman citizens—”

“Be that as it may, filia,” Pater firmly cut her off, “it is not seemly for a Roman Matron of an Old Republican Family to have a pedisequa. It is a modern degeneracy that encourages idleness and corruption among slaves. You must put her to work. Industry is what keeps a slave in order, what keeps a household in order, and what keeps a country in order. Send her to the kitchens at once. Let her scrub pots.”

During this pompous speech I had kept my eyes lowered, modestly I thought, while I examined my nails. The paint from my last manicure at the Vine and Fig Tree was already chipping. Suddenly my hair was yanked, and my head snapped back.

“You stand when my father speaks.”

I got to my feet and gave Publius Paulus a cool look. He did not return it, but Paulina caught it and slapped my face.

“Filia,” said Pater sharply. “A public display of temper is no way to discipline a slave. You must be in command of yourself before you can command others.”

“I’m sorry, Pater.” To me she hissed, “Go to the kitchens, Red.”

When I glanced back at her, she was almost crying.

“Sure thing, domina,” I said, giddy with relief.

As I walked away I heard her gasp, but it had nothing to do with me or with Pater. A man had just entered the room. No doubt it was her favorite equestrian, the one for whom she had leapt into her red dress. He had a head of short black curls, the tanned, wind-toughened complexion of a man who’s lived outdoors, an athlete’s body. I had to pass him on the way out. The testosterone was wafting off his skin in long rolling waves. Paulina better recline again before one of those waves hit her right in the knees.

No one had told me where the kitchens were, so I just followed the first slave who left the dining room with an empty platter through a maze of twists and turns to the inferno of the kitchens. A couple of dozen slaves performed a multitude of tasks in assembly line fashion from raw ingredients to artfully arranged platters. Other slaves, Boca among them, turned meat roasting on a spit. She nodded when she saw me, but did not leave her task. In a small adjoining room, several slaves appeared to be having a meal of bread and olive paste. I recognized some of them from the cubiculo and asked if I could join them. No one greeted me or offered me food or even acknowledged my presence until, driven by hunger and anger, I sat down and helped myself to a hunk of bread. Suddenly all conversation ceased.

“Who is this?” a squat, unpleasant looking man demanded.

I was sick of people talking about me instead of to me, but my mouth was full of tough chewy bread, and I could not speak for myself.

“It’s the domina’s new pedisequa.”

I recognized the speaker as the sarcastic chamber attendant—what was his name—Reginus? A strange name made of a word that did not exist—the masculine form for queen.

Everyone appraised me silently. The hostility was palpable.

“Hey,” I said when I swallowed my bread. “It wasn’t my idea.”

“Oh,” said one of the women, “was she the one who was—”

“—publicly beaten yesterday,” I finished for her, hoping to make it abundantly clear that my association with Paulina had nothing to do with any allegiance to her.

No one asked me what I had done. Everyone knew that no reason was necessary for a punishment. Now that they had me pegged, no one spoke to me further; they seemed utterly lacking not only in kindness but curiosity. I made a couple more fruitless attempts to join in the talk; then I gave up and left without a word.

I found my way through a back door into a cul de sac with a drain where the water from washing was dumped. At least I was alone for a moment, and I could see a slab of chilly sky. As I looked up, a few small winter birds flew over, a flash of life and movement in this narrow, cheerless place. My prison. Who would save me as I had once saved the Hibernian women? Why couldn’t I save myself? I sat down and closed my eyes, willing to shift into my bird shape, as I had once before when my life was in danger on the druid isle. But whatever power had come to me then, whatever grace, it could not find me here. I wrapped my arms around myself for warmth and slipped into a doze. The only release was sleep.

“Wake up, toots.” A hand closed on my upper arm, not gently but without intent to hurt. “She wants you in the cubiculo. Pronto. I’ll show you the way.”

I rubbed my eyes, feeling groggy and disoriented. I started to get up, but my back, where I’d leaned against the wall, was still stiff and sore.

“Come on,” said Reginus, and he helped me up, careful not to touch my back.

I followed a pace or two behind him, trying to memorize the turns and count the number of corridors and courtyards. If I was ever going to get out of here—or even survive here—I’d have to learn my way around, but high walls and right angles confounded my natural sense of direction that had been based on observation of light and water, the contours of land, the moss on rocks and trees.

When we reached a deserted atrium, Reginus dropped back beside me.

“Don’t ask me why I’m doing this,” he said in a low voice, looking around to make sure we weren’t being watched. “I guess it’s out of the goodness of my heartlessness. Trust me!” He held up his hand as if I’d protested, which I hadn’t. “I don’t have a heart. I cut it out myself a long time ago and ate it, because I was starving. I do have my balls, in case you were wondering about that. I just don’t do it with women. The noble Publius Paulus, in whose house I served for many years, found my predilections disgusting—though I’m not quite sure why, considering the perpetual stick he has up his ass. He was going to sell me off to a bathhouse (dear gods, I wish he had; how have I offended you?) when it occurred to him I’d make the perfect a cubiculo for his would-be slut of a daughter. But forget my life story. Not that you asked. It’s just that I hate to see those dumb, dazed animals in the beast shows that just wander into the arena and get slaughtered. A weakness of mine. But you get my drift.”

His patter was a little hard to keep up with, but this image went home.

“You mean—”

“Enough said,” he cut me off. “Now I’m going to explain some things to you this once. But don’t look to me for help after this. I’m not your friend. I’m not anyone’s friend. A few words to the wise, then you’re on your own. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Everyone here, everyone you see is working for someone. The ones who like to play dirty and dangerous are working for more than one someone. The ones who are really good at the game have people reporting to them. They’re information brokers.”

That had been part of Bone’s job description. I was not unfamiliar with the pettiness that was Rome.

“So?” I said. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“Tell me you’re not that stupid.”

“I’m a stupid slut,” I said with disinterest. “That’s the general consensus.”

“Play it that way if you want to.” He shrugged. “It might work. Depending on who you’re working for.”

“What if I don’t want to work for anyone?”

“Then you really are stupid. Listen, honey, in Rome everyone from emperor to the slave who empties the slops is out for himself. But no one belongs to himself.”

There was that phrase again, that charged phrase. No one belongs to himself.

“The only power you have at all is how you play the game. You can be clever or you can be a fool. I’ll give you a tip. Now that Decius Mundus is back, the stakes have gone up.” Reginus was whispering now. “Appius Claudius still hasn’t chosen an heir. The contenders are like buzzards around a wild beast show. You can be sure Claudius will play them for as long as he can, but it’s a dangerous game—”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “I don’t get it. Isn’t that the main reason he’s married to Paulina—to get an heir? Why else would anyone marry a spoiled little harpy who—”

“Ssh!” Reginus put his hand over my mouth as we heard someone approach from the other direction. “You’ll have to figure out the rest for yourself. Now drop behind me again, there’s a good rookie slave.”

When we got to the courtyard below Paulina’s cubiculo, my guide stood aside and gestured for me to pass.

“You first,” I said.

“I’m not going.” He grinned, not a very nice grin, more like a leer. “Thanks to you, I get to have an afternoon with the boys at the bath.”

“Thanks to me?”

“She’s cleared everyone else out. Have a ball.” He walked away, whistling so softly I could only hear him for a moment.

Here goes everything, I thought, and I mounted the stairs.