The Passion of Mary Magdalen. Elizabeth Cunningham

to handle. Like our Helen.”

      “So,” I said, “a whore is someone who insults people?”

      “You really don’t understand, do you?” she sighed. “All right then. Now I know you’re not a virgin. Domitia said you’ve borne a child; I can see that, too. You know what men and women do together, call it what you like. That’s what a brothel sells, dear. Same as a tavern sells drink or a bakery, bread. Men pay for that, and they pay all the more if a brothel is clean and well run, as this one is, and the fare is dished up in exotic and entertaining ways. Now, tell me you understand. I can’t make it much plainer.”

      I gaped at Bonia, a surge of adrenaline clearing away the drowsy haze of the wine like a sudden storm. You may have wondered how I could have failed to figure it out before, what with Domitia demanding to know if I was clean, the suggestive frescoes, the semi-clad women. You would have picked up the cues immediately, but I had no context for them. Slavery was bad enough. It had never occurred to me that my body could be sold again and again—to profit someone else. Specifically the hard-faced woman who thought she owned me.

      “I will not do that.” The calmness of my voice struck me as bizarre.

      Bonia gave me a sharp look, alert for trouble. Until that moment she hadn’t taken me seriously.

      “Oh, but you will,” she said. “And if you have a brain in your head, you’ll count yourself lucky. You’ll thank the gods for your good fortune. Wherever you come from, you’re in Rome now. There are brothels here no better than rat holes. And there are whore masters here who will work you till you’re dead. And why not? It’s easy enough to replace a whore, and don’t you forget it. Rome’s crawling with ‘em, and more coming every day. Slave and free. Now Domitia Tertia can be hard. She expects a good night’s work and no nonsense. But she’s fair. More than fair. She lets the girls keep their tips. More than one talented whore has bought her manumission and set herself up with her own business. Most brothel owners wouldn’t tolerate that. They’d be afraid of losing clients, but Domitia Tertia has never stood in the way of an enterprising whore. She’s always held that there’s no shortage of high-class clients. Quality knows quality.”

      “You mean there are women who buy their freedom?” I wanted to get this part straight. “And then go on being whores or buying their own whores?”

      “Why on earth wouldn’t they? It’s what they know. It’s a good, steady, profitable business. Look at Domitia Tertia.”

      “Domitia Tertia, the domina,” I corrected myself when Bonia frowned. “She was—or is—a whore?”

      “Domitia Tertia was born the daughter of a senator,” began Bonia, shifting her weight from one buttock to the other, settling herself to tell a favorite story. I recognized the signs. “Her father married her to a close friend of his who was always off trying to advance his career in unsuccessful military campaigns. Now everyone knows men can have mistresses, concubines, and whores by the score. Well-bred young ladies have to keep their legs shut or else sneak around all the while bribing slaves to keep their mouths shut. That didn’t suit our Domitia Tertia. Back in the good old days of Emperor Augustus, when the domina was young, a woman could register as a prostitute to get around the adultery laws. So that’s what she did, and just in time. When that old pervert Tiberius came to power, he closed the loophole. Ever notice how the more depraved a man is, the more he tries to ruin other people’s fun? Of course, even when it was legal under Augustus, a woman had to give up all rights to any inheritance. Being young and headstrong, Domitia cared more about her freedom.

      “After a few years of being a high-priced mistress, she found herself out on the street one day. The fancy domus she thought she ruled and all the slaves she thought she commanded belonged to him—and so had she, until he found someone younger to take her place. That was twenty years ago. She learned her lesson. Never be dependent on a man, whether it’s father, husband, or lover. Don’t just own yourself, own everything. That’s her motto. If that makes her greedy and rapacious and whatever else you said about Romans, so be it. But she is not without honesty and honor, and you’d do well to respect her for it.”

      “I thought you said she doesn’t talk about herself. How do you know all this?”

      “Domitia Tertia doesn’t have to talk about herself. Everyone knows who she is. Even the Emperor. She may have been disinherited, but she’s got the bloodlines, and she’s gotten rich by her own wits. What’s more she knows everything about everyone. People are careful not to cross her. A word to the wise, dearie, Domitia Tertia knows how to cut her losses. She doesn’t give people second chances. If she decides you’re a bad investment, she won’t hesitate to send you straight back to the slave block. Believe me, you won’t have an opportunity like this one again.

      “All right then.” She stood up and snapped her fingers for someone to come and clear away the tray of food. “There’s just time for you to have a little cat nap before the baths. Just sleep where you are. I’ll send one of the girls to fetch you when it’s time.”

      I closed my eyes and rested my head on my arms. Beside me I heard a soft thud; then something tickled my face. Through half-opened eyes I met a green-gold stare. Then the cat curled against my breasts, purring, and we both went to sleep in the sun.

CHAPTER THREE

       A NIGHT IN THE LIFE

      “Here is the way how to think of it, liebling,” said Berta.

      We were all soaking together in the caldarium. I had grown up with springs and surf, but I had never been in hot water before (at least not literally). I was distressed to find myself enjoying the sensation; I was becoming Roman already. The big blonde, my fellow barbarian, had taken me under her wing; that is, she had a plump arm draped over my shoulder. The other whores sat across the pool, whispering and tittering as they eyed me and listened to Berta hold forth. Well, they could hardly help it. She had a voice as big as she was—the voice of someone who’d once lived in the open.

      “You have been raped, yes? Who has not? I myself have been raped by a whole legion.”

      “Oh, not the legion again,” said the little dark one. She caught my eye and winked at me.

      “You know it’s true, Succula,” Berta scolded. “So. The Roman legion comes to my village. They burn the huts; they put the men to the sword, and they rape all the women. It is the same story everywhere. I was a virgin.…”

      “It is the eve of her wedding day,” added a woman, who was blacker than anyone I’d ever seen, with coil upon coil of snaky hair.

      “She hears the thundering of many hooves,” another woman continued.

      I was shocked that they would mock such a terrible story. It took me awhile to understand. We all had terrible stories. Mockery kept the terror at bay.

      “All right, all right,” said Berta crossly. “I wasn’t going to tell the whole story. I have a point to make.”

      “So make it already,” the black woman said.

      “If you would all shut up maybe I could.”

      The others pantomimed sealed lips and made strangled noises.

      “The point is,” Berta ignored them, “we have all had it stolen from us. Now we make them pay. It’s good. Yes?”

      The lips came unsealed with general laughter and agreement.

      I felt myself frowning. I was still tired and disoriented, but I knew something was faulty in their thinking.

      “No,” I said, “Domitia Tertia