The Passion of Mary Magdalen. Elizabeth Cunningham
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trusting that Berta and Dido were right behind us.
When we reached the water’s edge the whole crowd began to sing while the priestesses boarded the waiting moon-shaped boats.
You are the mother of the living
You are the lover of the dead
From the womb you knew your lover
Now you seek him in the riverbed.
All at once I knew exactly why I’d had the dream, why old Nona had provided the priestess robes. There was a purpose here. Everything had been prepared. All I had to do was act. I dropped Succula’s hand and made for the nearest empty boat. Before anyone could stop me, I was launched, the fog shrouding me, the black water sliding beneath the smooth curve of the boat. The sound of the singing came through the mist, clear, disembodied, but not loud enough to cover the sound of Succula crying my name.
“Row.” I hardened my heart and turned to the oarsman. “By Isis, mistress of the living and the dead, ruler of wind and water, row for all you’re worth to Ostia.”
“Ostia?” He sounded confused, but he did not question my authority. “I thought we was only going to Tiber Island. I never heard nothing about no Ostia.”
“It is the goddess’s command.”
Well, it was. Wasn’t it?
“But domina, what about the rapids?”
The rapids?
“And with the rain we’ve had this autumn, the river is running swift.”
“The goddess will protect us,” I said with more assurance than I felt, and then I thought to add, “And you will be well-rewarded.”
Through the mist I could just see the other boats; the priestesses singing a high, wordless lament as they trailed their arms and hair in the water searching for the scattered god. Around a bend in the river, Tiber Island hove into view, and the other boats veered toward it. My oarsman was looking frightened; I thought I saw him surreptitiously pulling us to the right out of the current.
“Don’t even think about it,” I said.
“But, domina—”
“You are more afraid of the rapids than the goddess’s wrath?”
And then, in a flash, we passed the point of no return. The current became stronger as the river narrowed and divided. Just before we hit the rapids the sun shot up and turned the mist golden. I had just time to think, how beautiful, and then the river took the little boat into the foaming torrent as if it were no more than a stick a child had tossed into the water. The oarsman screamed as we hit a rock, and he lost his oar. He lunged after it, and the boat capsized, pitching us into the water right where the Venus of the Sewer, Cloacina Maxima, relieved herself of her tribute.
In other words, we were in deep shit.
The rapids swiftly took us to a deeper part of the river where the current was still strong. The water was frigid and foul, but I could swim; one glance at the oarsman told me he could not. He flailed and sank, flailed and sank, so I made for him as fast as I could. After a struggle that nearly finished us both, I managed to get him in a classic lifesaver’s hold and pull him out of the current and then onto the bank of river where he promptly passed out.
Now what? I looked around me, dazed. It was a beautiful morning, too beautiful to make sense of what was happening. What had happened to the divine plan? How did I come to be standing here on the riverbank stinking of sewage in bedraggled priestess garb with a half drowned man at my feet? The small bag of coins that I’d worn under my clothes was gone, forever lost like Osiris’s prick. I had no idea how far it was to Ostia or how to get back to Esquiline Hill from here.
My oarsman was lying awfully still. Since I did not know what else to do, I knelt beside him, checked his breathing and his pulse, then I searched his head to make sure he hadn’t hit it on a rock. I found no injury, but the man groaned and then began to shiver convulsively. In a flash, the fire of the stars ignited in my crown and flowed into my hands. I followed its lead, touching the man’s face, throat, lungs, legs, feet.
“Isis,” he sighed. “Sweet Isis.”
I looked up and saw that the man had raised himself on his elbows. He was gazing at me with awe and adoration, which made no sense considering I was soaking wet, stinking of sewage and had nearly cost him his life by forcing him over the rapids.
“So it’s all true.” His plain diffident face had been transformed. “You do save us. You welcome us in the Land of the Dead.”
I held on to the man’s feet, trying to bring him to earth. But I wasn’t about to contradict him.
“My son,” I spoke the words that came to me. “You are saved indeed, but you are still in the land of the living. Go home now. Get into dry clothes. Drink hot wine.”
“I obey, my goddess and my queen.”
He bowed before me; then obediently went his way, his step young and sprightly.
Then the fire that had filled me died away. I felt cold all over. I knew I had to do something, make a decision, but my mind felt numb as my feet. Get up, get moving was the best I could do, but when I tried to stand, my legs buckled under me. Where is Isis when I need her was my last conscious thought.
I can smell the river, the mud banks baking in the sun. I can hear the sound of water and wind moving through the reeds. And there is the black coffin carrying my beloved away from me. I rush towards the box but the water weeds bind my legs. The current flows past me and I float helpless, my arms streaming towards him.
“You must become the river,” a voice says.
Yes. I begin to dissolve, turn into water, but someone is pulling at me, slapping me, forcing me back into solid form.
“I was right,” a voice spoke, a different voice, voluptuous with satisfaction. “I do know this woman. She is a whore, not a priestess, a whore and a slave, a runaway slave.”
I kept my eyes shut. I was dreaming, I decided. I’d had that dream of the river. Now I was simply having a nightmare. Nothing more.
Another blow; half my face exploded in pain. My ears rang, and my eyes opened against my will. Two large breasts blotted out the sky. Then the face above them leaned over me. A young, beautiful face, empty except for malice. I had seen it somewhere before. I didn’t care to see it again.
“I am a priestess,” I managed to say. “A priestess of Isis.”
Then another blow fell, and I got my wish. Everything went black.
“She’s burning up with fever.”
I felt the touch of a woman’s hand kindly and competent on my forehead. I made an effort to sit up. That’s when I discovered my hands and feet were shackled to the floor. I had no idea where I was, except that I was inside, and it was damp and chill and stank of piss. I focused on the woman kneeling beside me. She was dressed in priestess’s robes, and after a moment I recognized her as the priestess from the Temple Venus Obsequens.
“She’s lying in her own urine,” the woman went on. “And no one has given her dry clothes. This woman is a priestess. Do you not fear the gods, man?”
“If the woman is a priestess of yours, you can take her and welcome.”
“Very well,” said the woman. “Call for a litter at once.”
“Not yet, domina,” said the aedile, a bored looking low-level bureaucrat. “We have a witness who says she’s a runaway slave from the Vine and Fig Tree. We can’t settle anything till Domitia Tertia gets here.”
“But I told you. I know who she is,” another woman spoke.