think it might be you, domina.”
“You’re perceptive. I asked the artist to depict Circe on her island. An insolent but talented young man, he manages to hint that there is a likeness between us. Do you know the story of Circe?”
“No, domina.”
“Sit.” She indicated a low stool on the other side of the table from her couch. “Long, long ago, much longer ago than those philosophers Joseph wants you to read, in the time of the gods and heroes, Circe lived on Aeaea, an island off the coast of Italia. Some called her a goddess, some a sorceress. She was the daughter of Helio, the sun god, and Perse, an ocean nymph.”
Just the opposite of me, the daughter of the sea god and my mother Grainne of the golden hair, the sun herself, I mused, lulled by the storytelling, forgetting for a moment that god my father was a lie my mothers told because it made a better story than the truth.
“When a lover displeased her or rejected her, she turned him into an animal. All except Odysseus,” Domitia went on. “He cheated. Hermes gave him an herb called moly to protect him against Circe’s magic. She had turned his advance guard into swine. But she let Odysseus go unharmed, though he had been her lover for a year. She did more than that; she helped him, gave him directions to Hades, so that he could consult with the spirits of the dead. That is how the story goes. People are always telling stories of heroes outwitting witches. But I personally don’t think the moly affected Circe’s actions at all.”
I waited attentively. Whose story was she telling me?
“The name Circe means hawk. A predatory bird with keen sight. I think she saw it all. I think she knew exactly what she was doing.”
“Now then,” she shifted from story-telling mode to her more familiar business manner, “do you know why I called you here today, Red?”
Suddenly I had hope, wild desperate hope. Joseph had changed his mind; he was buying me from her. He was even now making preparations for departure. Like Circe, she would help him go home…with me, even though he had been her lover. Holy Moly!
“I would not presume to know your reasons, domina,” was all I said.
She gave me a sharp look. My imitation of a good, submissive slave must have seemed just that—an imitation, a subtly mocking one.
“Listen, Red, Rhuad, whatever Joseph calls you. You be straight with me and I’ll be straight with you. As you know, you’ve been on probation and under keener observation than you might imagine.”
I had no doubt of that, though it seemed rather absurd—obsessive-compulsive to use one of your terms—to expend so much effort monitoring a slave, a disposable commodity as I had been repeatedly reminded. I made no comment as I studied a chipped fingernail that one of the ornatrices would have to fix today. I knew my display of indifference bordered on insolence.
“Look at me when I speak to you.”
I raised my eyes and met hers. They were fierce and dark and distant, all at the same time. Hawk woman, sorceress, ruler of her own little walled island. Did she turn her discarded lovers into cats?
“You have a gift, Red. Like any gift, wealth, talent, beauty—you could squander yours.”
“What is my gift?” I asked after a moment.
“You are a talented whore.”
Fucking great, I thought. My eyes twitched, I wanted so badly to roll them.
“You don’t want to be here. Why else do you think I’ve kept a potential gold mine under house arrest for so long? You despise being a slave. You’re very bad at it. You despise me. You don’t hide it well. Yet when you are a whore, you are a whore. You don’t stint. It’s like a craftsman doing some minor job with care and precision, though no one else will notice. You can’t help yourself, can you?”
I didn’t despise her—that word implied contempt. But I hated her very much.
“Why did you call me here? Where is Joseph?”
She looked ruffled, angry for the first time. “Joseph’s whereabouts are no business of yours unless he requires you. Don’t get ideas. And no, in case you’re wondering, I didn’t put a stop to the lessons. He is perfectly right; an educated whore could be an asset. In fact, he left you a scroll to keep reading while he’s gone.”
“Gone? When will he come back?”
“Did I or did I not just tell you Joseph’s business is none of your business?”
“You did.” I said. If I shed a tear in front of Domitia Tertia, I will find a way to cut out my own heart, I vowed to myself. A soothing thought. There.
“As for why I have called you here, I swear I have almost changed my mind. I told you to look at me.”
I did with all the calm of renewed hopelessness.
“Flavius Anecius is giving a banquet for his son, who puts on the manly toga tomorrow. He is also hosting chariot races at Circus Maximus. He has reserved a block of seats for the Vine and Fig Tree, and he has asked that you be among the entertainers at the banquet. Such occasions can be lucrative. Joseph has told me about doing business with your people. I know you count wealth in cattle. I want to make sure you understand: if you save your coins and bank them with the House, you can buy your freedom within years. Mere years. Do you understand?”
I’m not stupid, bitch. I know what a coin is worth, but you have no idea what a year costs me. “Yes, domina.”
“You do know what happens to runaway slaves?”
“They are killed.” My shoulders wanted to shrug, but I caught them in time.
“Ha! If they had only death to fear, there would be far fewer slaves in Rome. Listen well, Red. Runaway slaves are publicly beaten; their flesh is branded, and they are sent to the salt mines to be worked to death.”
No answer seemed to be required.
“Joseph says you’re too smart to be stupid. I have my doubts about that. You decide who is right. Go now. Be dressed and ready to go with Bone to Circus Maximus at the third hour tomorrow morning.”
I stood up, looking again from Domitia Tertia to her likeness Circe—what Domitia might have been if she’d lived on a shining isle like my mothers, if she were wild instead of hardened, if she were a goddess, instead of a Roman brothel keeper.
“Wait. Here is the scroll.” She reached under the couch. “When you are not studying, Bonia will keep it locked in one of the chests. No,” she cautioned, “this scroll is inferior work not worth much money. Don’t even think about trying to sell it.”
I hadn’t in fact thought about it; I needed to learn to think like that.
“Thank you, domina.”
“Thank Joseph,” she sighed.
And for just a moment she looked merely human and very weary.
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