The Passion of Mary Magdalen. Elizabeth Cunningham
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I never! What is the meaning of this intrusion?”
Through the steam we saw a dozen women clutching their bosoms. It seemed we had walked in on Anecius’s wife and her distinguished guests.
“Pardon us, dominae,” said Bone, who was still with us.
“By Diana, is that a man?”
The woman was not taking Diana’s name in vain. The virgin goddess had once punished a peeping Tom (or Acteon in this case) by turning him into a stag and hunting him down with his own hounds. A popular theme for bathhouse dÈcor. (Not that any of the assembled qualified as virgin or goddess.)
“No, dear, of course not. It’s a eunuch.”
“We are the guests of the Senator,” Bone explained. “We do not mean to disturb you. We shall retire until you are done.”
“Why, they’re whores!” someone hissed. “Filthy, dirty whores.” The woman sniffed. (Guess I should have lost the sandals.) “This is an outrage.”
“An arrangement of my husband’s, it would seem,” said the hostess, a gaunt colorless woman, who spoke almost without moving her lips. “A failure on the part of his staff to communicate with mine. My apologies to all of you. I assure you, those responsible for the error shall be beaten.”
“Come on, ladies, let’s go,” said Bone, under his breath.
“Calm yourself, Marcia dear.” I looked back to see an older woman with a beautifully kept body rise from the bath. “Such misunderstandings can occur in the most efficiently run households.” The woman’s tone implied that they never occurred in her house. “Weren’t we just remarking that it is time to dress?”
This woman clearly outranked all the others. Could she be Livia? We stood and waited while she snapped her fingers for her slaves, who helped her from the bath and robed her. The others had no choice but to follow her lead.
Their dismissal of Bone’s offer to leave, I suspect, had to do with arrogance. If they had allowed us to withdraw, they would have acknowledged us as persons, however undesirable. By making a show of being finished with their bath, calling their attendants, and dressing in front of us, they made it plain that our existence was of no consequence. For our part, we struck poses of nonchalance and boredom.
It was all a sham. We wanted to stare at them—the female counterparts of the men we serviced—and they wanted to gawk at us. In fact, there wasn’t much difference between us. Expensive whores and wealthy matrons both spent hours every day tending their flesh, maintaining appearances in order to please and control men. The main difference was in the face, the expression. The dominae looked peevish, as though nothing was quite what they expected. They looked disappointed. If we did not, it was because we didn’t expect anything. Or if we did—(who am I kidding)—we didn’t let it show.
Now they began to file past us out of the room, not turning their heads to acknowledge us—except for the last one. She was younger than the rest with masses of dark hair piled carelessly on her head. Her expression was even more petulant, but she didn’t bother to hide her curiosity about us—or her rather sumptuous breasts. As she passed me, she contrived to brush her breasts against mine. I felt her nipples go erect.
“Scorta!” Succula spat the rudest Roman street term for whore as the woman’s swaying hindquarters disappeared into the mists.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“Only the latest wife of Appius Claudius,” said Bone, who knew these things. His tone was dismissive.
“The one who owns all those insulae near us?”
Bone nodded. “The man is rich, but he has no pedigree. Believe it or not the bitch does. Old republican stock.”
We all eased into the hot water; a collective sigh rose with the steam.
“Claudius is not exactly in his first youth,” Bone became expansive with the heat. “Rumor has it he can no longer rise to the occasion. At least not for a woman.”
“That is not just a rumor, kinder,” Berta winked. “What I went through with that man the last time I have to do him. A few years ago it is now, thank the goddess. Never let anyone tell you whores just lie on their back and spread their legs. Before he can get it up, I have to stand the man on his head and fuck him upside down. I tell you it’s no joke,” she protested as we all started to howl. “Stop! I will piss the bath water!”
“Too bad we didn’t get the bath first,” said Dido.
“Those cunts are pissy enough as it is,” said Succula. “Not that I’d mind giving any of them a golden shower, especially that horny, little—”
“Now, now, liebling, she can’t help it if she’s horny. Look what she married!”
“Why can’t she take a lover?” I asked. “Would the husband care?”
“The husband, no,” said Bone. “Probably not. He doesn’t even much care about an heir. He’s got a pretty good racket going. Lots of gorgeous young men hanging around him, flattering him, hoping to be adopted.”
“But then why lumber himself with another wife?” I persisted. I did not understand Roman ways.
“Simple. Her pater’s connections. Why Publius Paulus ever agreed to the match is more of a mystery. Some of the old families are cash poor, but I suspect there’s more to it than that. Anyway, he kept the manus. That’s not done much nowadays, even in the old families. But Paulus made a point of it.”
“The manus?” I had not heard the term before. “What is that?”
“It comes down to who owns her. A daughter is a father’s property unless he gives the manus to the husband. If he keeps it, the father has the right to protect or punish his daughter as he sees fit.”
“To put it crudely, honey, if she gets caught with her stola up around her ears, it’s daddy, not hubby, who gets to strangle her,” said Succula. “I could almost feel sorry for her—almost.” She nestled against me and cupped one of my breasts. “Bitch better keep away from these or I’ll show her who’s got manus.”
“Her father could kill her without a trial?” I didn’t know why my hands shook and my stomach churned. I certainly didn’t care about some spoiled young Roman matron.
“Red,” said Dido, “this is the real world. Fathers don’t need trials to dispose of their daughters. When did they ever? I thought Uncle Joseph was trying to civilize you with those Greek lessons. Didn’t he tell you about Agamemnon, sugar? Need a fair wind? Sacrifice a daughter.” Her tone was angry, bitter. “Are you seriously trying to tell us it’s different where you come from?”
“Tell them, liebling,” Berta urged. “Tell them who is really the barbarians.”
I wanted to tell them. Damn right, it’s different. We have a law older than all other laws called mother right. Women of my people own their own herds; we can be queens; we can make poems and recite law. And we can fuck whomever we want to fuck. We have sovereignty, goddess bless us.
And yet hadn’t my father raped me, and no one would believe me? Hadn’t my father tried more than once to kill me? In the end, when he killed himself, hadn’t the druids blamed me for his death? Even when they learned the truth, they sang his praises.
Me they put in a boat with only a knife and let the tide take me away.
So I didn’t answer Dido. I leaned back in the bath. For a moment the steam thinned and I could just see the high ceiling. There were birds flying around in the upper reaches. Were they looking for the way out—or had they forgotten the sky?
“How in the three worlds” (I reverted to Celtic cosmology when I was in extremis) “am I supposed to dance after eating