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 gentlemen like to be humiliated, dear. Some gentlemen like a woman who will give them a fight. And some gentlemen like an educated woman. Yes, I think Domitia may have made a good investment. Always a risk, though. The stupid ones are easier 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
