The Passion of Mary Magdalen. Elizabeth Cunningham

LONGEST NIGHT

      “Isis!”

      I stand before the tawdry painted statue at the temple of Venus Obsequens; only it’s not the temple; it’s Paulina’s cubiculo, dark except for the coals in the brazier and filled with the breathing of wall-to-wall slaves.

      “Isis, you have betrayed me.”

      “Then make your complaint, daughter, make it well, as the druids taught you.”

      She wants me to make a poem, this plaster and paint goddess who led me to the river and overturned my boat, who abandoned me to slavery.

      Suddenly I have a sistrum in my hand; I am shaking a rhythm with it, the rhythm of birds’ wings beating the sky, the rhythm of the river where it meets the tides of the sea. I hear my voice wailing. There are no words, but my voice dissolves the walls, and there is only light, bright, unbearable.

      Then I am in a grove of trees, a dark grove, like the ones on Mona. I am drawn to one tree in particular—a massive tree it would take six men to ring, a tree with bark like the flow of water, the current of a river. Lodged in the hollow of the trunk with the tree growing all around it as if it were a wound, I see the coffin.

      “How do I get him out?” I cry out. “How do I free him?”

      As if in answer, my foster-father King Bran appears beside the tree. He gazes at me, and the leaves of the tree turn gold, not autumn gold, gold as the sun, as light itself.

      “Ah, lass, we all want to be free.”

      He holds out his arms, but before I can reach him—

      I woke up cold and cramped in Paulina’s room. It was dark, but there was a particular quality to the cold and to my wakefulness that told me dawn was not far off. Wrapped in my cloak that doubled as a blanket, I went outside and sat down in a corner of the courtyard. It was colder away from the sleeping bodies, but I needed to be by myself. Those other bodies, however warm, were not my friends. There was no comfort in their nearness. The fierce, faraway stars seemed kindlier than my chamber mates, so I sat and looked up at them.

      The dream left me aching with longing, but I welcomed it. It was the first dream I could remember since I had come to domus Claudii. If I only had my surface life as a slave, the same every day, flat and featureless, I might as well die. I would die. Underneath, even if I could only know it in sleep, there was a world of great dimension, of numinous trees, a loving king, and a story that was not over yet. Curiously, the dream had changed. In waking life, I felt more trapped than ever, but I had not dreamed of being bound by the riverweeds. I had dreamed of the tree—in Isis’s story, she finds the coffin in a temple pillar. But for a Celt the grove is a temple.

      “Hey,” said a startled voice. My thoughts scattered and hid as someone entered the courtyard from the passageway. “What are you doing out here?”

      “Who wants to know?” I was angry. My cold dawn sanctuary had been invaded.

      “I do.” I recognized Reginus’s voice as he neared me.

      “Leave me alone,” I growled. “Or I’ll tell Publius Paulus that you were absent without leave.”

      “‘Atta, girl, Red,” Reginus encouraged me, ignoring my threat. “Now you’re catching on.” He sat down next to me and huddled close for warmth. “I’ve been meaning to have a chat with you. This is too good a chance to pass up. And besides I’ve got a flask of wine, and some fresh baked bread, so be nice.”

      “Have a friend in the kitchen, do you?” I said, tearing off a hunk of bread. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t have friends. You’re screwing someone in the kitchen.”

      “That’s right,” he said amiably, and he passed me the flask.

      “So what do you want with me, Reginus?”

      “Idle curiosity. What have you done to the domina?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “She’s different since you’ve been here.”

      “Different how?”

      “She keeps looking to you, as if she wants your approval. I’ve never seen her do that with anyone but Publius Paulus.”

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I recoiled at the thought of having anything in common with that man. “She throws fits with me the same as she does with anyone else.”

      “But with you, she’s watching for a reaction.”

      I shrugged. “What do you care, Reginus? Oh!” I suddenly got it. “Of course. You report on her to someone. Her father. You’re his slave. Well, get this straight, I wouldn’t pass on information to Publius Paulus about my worst enemy, which Paulina is. It may be your job description to tattle to him, but it’s not mine. And if you want to keep those balls you’re so proud of, don’t try to weasel secrets out of me.”

      “My, my. Aren’t we the savage Celt?”

      I didn’t even bother to say shut up.

      “I’ll tell you something, Red, in confidence—”

      “Don’t.”

      “You’re wrong about me. I don’t report to Publius Paulus. I—”

      “Listen, Reginus,” I stopped him, “if you’re not trying to trick me, why are you telling me anything at all. What do you care about what I think of you?”

      “The hell if I know!” He sounded genuinely perplexed. “Hey, if you want to work for the bitch, work for her. Just leave my balls alone, ok?”

      There didn’t seem to be much point in explaining to him that I wasn’t working for anyone, that I wanted no part of this dismal place and its pecking order. It was all Reginus knew.

      But I knew something else. At least in my dreams.

      “Red!” It was Paulina, half-furious, half-panicked. “Where is Red?”

      “Well,” said Reginus, helping me to my feet. “I will say I don’t envy you. Why I’m bothering with you, I don’t know, but take it from me, Red, if you’re working only for Paulina, you may be backing the wrong horse. If I were you, I’d hedge my bets.”

      I didn’t ponder much over Reginus’s hints, though I knew what he meant. Paulina was not a player. She had no power; she was just a pain. People with real power didn’t have to beat up on their slaves; they had more interesting victims. Ambitious slaves did what they could to ally themselves with power. But I did not want to succeed as a slave—to succeed would be to concede that I was a slave, which, of course, outwardly I was. But in my heart, I still fiercely guarded my sovereignty, though I no longer knew if it existed.

      The light waned toward the darkest time, and the cold grew bitter. Then Saturnalia began, days and days of nonstop partying. The festivities kept Paulina distracted and the chamber slaves frantically busy as she changed her clothes, hair, and makeup half a dozen times a day. Now and then Paulina took me with her to a banquet. More frequently she left me behind, specifically whenever she knew or feared that pater might also be attending.

      Though a break from Paulina’s demanding company was always a relief, those long nights were also lonely. I was homesick, more homesick than I had ever been in my years of exile. In the Holy Isles, winter was the time of storytelling and music. There was no storytelling at domus Claudius, only tale-bearing. The slaves who were not busy serving at banquets sat around the braziers in numb silence—too cold, wretched, or mistrustful to talk, at least when I was there, hopelessly tainted in everyone’s eyes as the domina’s pedisequa. Only Boca ever made me welcome in the kitchens, saving me scraps of food and making a place for me at the outskirts of the hearth where she hovered, barely sure of her own place. In return I defended her from cuffs and taunts. We were both at the bottom of the slave