The Passion of Mary Magdalen. Elizabeth Cunningham
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Before the little girls had finished mounting the stairs, Helen appeared followed by a woman who seemed to be her hairdresser and make-up designer.
“You like, domina?” the attendant inquired.
“Very nice,” the domina understated.
Helen gave a whole new meaning to the word golden; blonde had nothing to do with it. Her minimal attire was just a shade lighter gold than her skin and hair. She drifted down the stairs as if a slow breeze carried her.
“Yeah, a thousand ships, give or take a few,” commented Bone.
“Go see if the litter is ready,” the domina ordered the girls. “Step on it, Helen. Save the undulating grace for the senator.”
“There’s a girl could go far,” remarked Bonia as the two women left. “If she had any brains, that is. Fortunately for Domitia Tertia she doesn’t.”
That was the first time I had heard my captor’s name. It seemed possible that Bonia might be the sort of person who keeps up a running commentary. I decided to pay close attention.
“Come along, dearie,” Bonia turned to me, giving me a quick once-over. “Not the Helen of Troy type, but I expect you’ll do. I don’t always follow her reasoning, but Domitia knows how to pick ‘em.”
After following Bonia through a confusing series of corridors and rooms, I found myself in a back courtyard off the kitchen that had a high wall and no exit that I could see. Bonia gestured for me to recline on a bench and sent the little girls to fetch wine and food. I ate ravenously—bread with a black paste made of olives, as well as cheese, figs, and grapes. I’d had barely enough food to keep me alive since I’d run away from the mountains in Iberia where I had been the revered, even worshipped, prisoner of a Celtic tribe whose youth, male and female, had been killed or taken captive by—who else—the Romans. One of their remnant had found me washed up and near dead on the shore and the surviving old women had, it is true, saved my life. In return I was supposed to single-handedly—or wombedly—repopulate their village. But I had had other plans. I still had other plans.
After my long fast, the wine hit my veins like a spring flood, weakening my guard. I struggled against the feelings of comfort and familiarity Bonia roused in me. She was big-boned, plain, older than me and completely sure of her place and her purpose. Until I was fourteen I had lived on an island with women only, all of whom had considered themselves my mother and alternately bossed me and spoiled me. When I went away to druid school, the black-robed priestesses of Holy Isle took firm charge of the female students. Now here I was again, being taken in hand by yet another woman, an extremely competent woman. But that did not mean she had my best interests at heart. As little as I understood of my present predicament, one thing was clear to me: the only interests that mattered at the Vine and Fig Tree were Domitia Tertia’s.
“Run along,” Bonia said to the little girls. “Go help old Nona with the washing.”
“We want to watch the one with fire in her hair.”
“Not now. I have to instruct her.”
“We want ‘structions.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry, silly things. Shoo!”
She cuffed them, not too roughly but not too gently either. I stared after the girls. I had been my mothers’ only child, and even after I’d left the island I’d seen few young children. I craved some image of what my daughter, no longer a baby, might look like.
“How old are they?” I asked.
“The little one about four and the other, six, I believe,” said Bonia as she fetched a stool and sat down beside me. “Some of the older ones are being trained to be ornatrices. A good skill for the ugly ones, and the pretty ones will begin to learn the profession from the girls. Domitia Tertia doesn’t hold with auctioning a girl’s virginity till she’s fourteen. In most brothels, they’re doing a full night’s work by age ten. She won’t budge on that rule no matter who’s bidding, and some gentlemen like ‘em barely out of the cradle.”
I still didn’t know—or, more precisely, didn’t want to know—what she was talking about. My stomach lurched, and I took a deep breath, determined to hold onto my lunch.
“You mean she—”
“The domina,” Bonia instructed me. “That is how you should refer to her.”
“She buys little girls…as slaves?” I ignored her directive.
“Mater Matuta! You really are a barbarian. Why would she have to buy little girls? She picks them up off the street, off the refuse heaps.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exposed, dear. Don’t you know? People don’t want the expense of raising a daughter, not more than one or two anyway. The only people with the sense to see the value of female children are the brothel keepers. Moreover, Domitia Tertia has a bit of a bee in her bonnet about infant exposure. No one knows for certain—she doesn’t talk much about herself, not even to me—but the story goes that her father tried to expose her. She was the third daughter, as you can tell from her name.”
“From her name?” I repeated. “Oh, you mean the Tertia part?”
I didn’t yet know of the common Roman practice of naming daughters after the father, distinguishing them only by number.
“Dear me,” Bonia clucked. “For all you appear to understand Latin, I swear you’re more of a barbarian than Berta was when she arrived without a word of any tongue but what they speak in those savage northern places. Always sounds to me like pigs rooting in mud. I better get some idea of what you do and don’t know. First things first. You do understand what the domina bought you for.”
I felt such shame at the idea of being bought at all. I stared down at the remnants of the food. I’d lost my appetite.
“Answer me, girl.” Her voice was sharp as the slap that would doubtless follow. Not that I was afraid of a smack in the face, but there was no point in antagonizing the woman who had immediate charge over me, the first obstacle in my path to escape.
“She bought me to be her slave.” But I am no one’s slave, and I never will be, I added to myself.
“Well, obviously, dear. We’re all her slaves, from the old women to the little girls. It takes a lot of slaves to run a house like this one. Only a few of the slaves are whores. Surely I don’t need to explain to you what a whore does.”
I hated to admit ignorance to this woman who believed she had power over me.
“I am the daughter of warrior witches, who are the daughters of a goddess. I was educated by the Cailleach of Tir na mBan and the druids of Mona mam Cymru. I speak the languages of my people as well as Latin, Greek, and Aramaic. I know that all Romans are greedy, cruel, rapacious, and without honor or honesty. If there’s anything else I need to know, you’ll have to tell me.”
By this time Bonia was whooping with laughter. I would have preferred just about any other response. But she kept right on laughing until she finally sighed and dabbed her eyes with her sleeve.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded. “I just insulted your people.”
“Not my people, dearie. Bone and I are Greek. You’ll find that a lot of slaves come from somewhere else.”
“Then why did you laugh?” I lowered my voice. “Do you hate the Romans, too?”
That started her off again. “No, dear. I don’t bother my head with politics. The Romans rule the world, and that’s that. No, it’s just the domina said you’d be one for cracking the whip. I believe she’s right. She ought to train you herself.”
“To do what?”
“Some