The Passion of Mary Magdalen. Elizabeth Cunningham
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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.
When I stepped into Paulina’s cubiculo—for all its luxurious appointments still small and stinking of perfume and hair oil—I had a moment’s false hope. She appeared to be asleep, sprawled on her couch, one arm under her head, the other under her breasts, her hand resting on the curve of her pubic bone. Her shift rode up her thighs stopping just short of where her hand lay, as if she had been lifting it and then thought better