The Passion of Mary Magdalen. Elizabeth Cunningham
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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,”