Pilate's Wife: A Novel of the Roman Empire (17 page)

"Love? I know nothing of love, perhaps I never knew." I paused a moment, thinking. "I know about hope. I have fallen out of hope."

"
Dominus
could not have known about the snake pit," Rachel said, as she brushed my tangled hair.

"He knew, he had to know."

Rachel's hazel eyes watched me sympathetically. "Roman women obey their husbands," she reminded me.

"I know. Mother is most fortunate. For her it is easy. Few women love their husbands as she does--or have husbands like my father."

"You have changed." Rachel set the brush down and began to massage my scalp. "Did the god do that? You seem stronger...wiser. You see things as they are."

"Perhaps, but I have no intention of accepting what I see."

The undulating movement of Rachel's hands stopped. "What do you mean?"

"Mother and
Tata
gave me money before the wedding, each of them saying a wife should have something of her own without knowing the other had wished the same. There is more than enough to pay our passage to Rome."

"To Rome!" Rachel gasped, "What are you thinking?"

"I am going home to my parents. Let people talk as they will. It won't be long before they have something else to gossip about, someone else. Once I am home--really home--everything will be all right." I lay back contentedly, enjoying my new sense of confidence.

As the shipboard days passed and my energy slowly returned, I grew restless. The drumbeat that commanded the galley slaves underscored my eagerness to reach Antioch, sever my ties there, and get on with my life. Rousing myself at last, I asked Rachel to have my couch carried onto the deck. There I reclined for hours looking out at the sea. The waves frothed and sloshed at the ship's flanks, churning gray and deep. Passengers and crew tiptoed around me. Some were openly curious, others appeared almost awestruck. I suppose they had heard about the snake pit. I discouraged conversation even with Rachel. The only company I sought was that of Isis. I felt her strength now as never before.

Sempronia and Plutonius watched with anxious eyes. When the ship reached Halicarnassus, I saw Plutonius hand a scroll to an officer about to board a smaller, faster vessel anchored next to ours. No doubt he was making certain that his version of events reached Pilate first. How amusing, how unimportant.

I
SAW
P
ILATE WATCHING AS THE SHIP DOCKED IN
A
NTIOCH
. B
EFORE
anyone could disembark, he boarded, shouldered his way past Plutonius and Sempronia. "I'm glad you're back," he said, his arms around me. "I missed you."

"Did you?" I asked, slipping out of his grasp. "Did you really?" I looked at him curiously.

The blue eyes I had once found irresistible were turned full force on me. "I understand you had quite an ordeal. I am sorry, truly sorry."

"An ordeal? You might say that. It was a very--how shall I say it?--enlightening experience."

"I am glad you feel that way." Surprise and relief were apparent on his face as he took me in his arms again. "There is something that I need to tell you."

An ugly dread swept over me...
the dream
. My heart began to pound as he cradled my head against his shoulder. "A letter came this morning from Agrippina."

Freeing myself, I stood back and looked at him. "It's
Tata,
isn't it? Something has happened to
Tata
."

"I'm afraid so. Your father was condemned by Tiberius, condemned as a traitor and confined to his house to await trial. Everyone knew what was expected of him."

"Not suicide..." My constricted throat could barely form the word. "And Mother?" I took a deep breath, knowing already what he would say.

"She chose to die with him."

W
hat can I do, Claudia? Tell me, I want to help." I heard Pilate's voice as in a dream. "Let me take you home."

"Home?" I looked up at him. "
You
want to take me home? If I have a home anywhere in this world it is not with you." I pushed his arms aside and turned away, looking about in dazed bewilderment. Home was with Mother and
Tata,
but now they were gone, lost forever. How could I live without them? Where could I go? What was left for me?

"What are you talking about!" Pilate's eyes flashed angrily. "Your parents are dead. Your only home is with me!" He grabbed me again but I pulled back so hard that my
stola
ripped in his hands.

Just beyond the wharf I saw a battered chariot; the driver, an ill-kempt fellow, loitered nearby. Plutonius had come up beside us, seeking Pilate's attention. As my husband turned impatiently toward him, I ran to the chariot and climbed on.

"I'll pay you more than anyone," I offered. The driver's eyes moved over me, appraising. "Please," I begged, opening the pouch at my waist. "Whatever you want. Take me to--" I hesitated uncertainly. Pilate was striding angrily toward us. "Just go!" I screamed. "Get me away from here."

Pilate lunged forward, grabbing the reins. "Stop!" he cried, an impressive figure in his plumed helmet and scarlet cloak.

"No! Don't listen to him," I pleaded. "I have gold, you shall have it."

The driver looked at Pilate, then at me. He wrested the reins free, cracked his whip. The horses charged forward, almost jerking me off my feet. "Where do you want to go?"

Where?
Where in the world could I go? And then I knew. The perfect place, the only place.

I braced my feet, clung tightly to the charioteer's waist, impervious to his smell, to the long, greasy hair that sometimes blew across my face. We galloped headlong through vast waterfront stalls, past porticoes and arches, markets and baths until, in the very center of Antioch, the chariot came to a stop. Looming before us in all its glory was the temple of Isis.

"You know that chariots aren't allowed here," the driver reminded me.

"Yes, yes, I know. Take this, take all of it," I said, handing him my pouch. "Consider it a gift from Isis to whom you have delivered me."

He helped me down and stood for a moment looking up at the temple. "A new life for you, is it? May Fortuna bring you luck."

I looked at him in surprise. "
You
have already brought me luck. Thank you." I turned and rushed up the wide marble stairs, fearful that Pilate might be close on my heels.

The temple swarmed with activity. Worshippers--in Egyptian kilts, Roman togas, Greek tunics--came and went from all directions. Proper-looking priests and priestesses in their fine white linen looked askance as I ran past them toward the inner courtyard. Someone must have summoned the mystagogue, for he stood as though waiting for me beside the great golden statue of Isis.

Dropping to my knees, I knelt before him. "Take me in," I begged, fighting back the tears. "My dear parents are gone. The marriage I wanted desperately is over. Only Isis remains. You must accept me as an acolyte."

Gently, the holy man raised me to my feet. "You
have
changed," he said, pushing back the tangled hair from my face. "I see the great sorrow that has befallen you. I also see that Isis has returned to your heart. You must continue to seek her truth, to meditate and to pray, but temple life--no. That is not for you."

"Just give me a chance to prove myself."

The mystagogue looked at me, a faint smile hovering about his lips. "You have no idea what you are asking. Everyday tasks have always been done for you. You scarcely think of them--if at all. Here you would have to serve others. I doubt that you are strong enough."

"If other acolytes can do it, I can."

"Most of them are free slaves or foundlings. Rarely does a woman of your rank serve in the temple."

"Then let me be the exception. I will do anything you say."

"
Anything
I say? Do you promise that?"

"I do. Treat me as any novice."

The mystagogue shook his head doubtfully, but in the end agreed.

He took me at my word, too, giving orders that I was to be shown no favoritism. With no slave to assist me--I would not ask Rachel to share my exile--I had to learn to do for myself what had always been done for me. Simple things like dressing myself at first seemed impossible. My gowns--matching length with length, the folding and the fastening--were a mystery. There was a trick, I learned, of pulling the
palla
straight and anchoring it tight beneath my breasts. I had never before touched a hand to my hair; Rachel had spent hours on it. Now I struggled to tame the unruly curls, finally pulling them into a single thick braid.

Flavia, priestess of the
latrinas,
was my first taskmaster. With brows raised at the mystagogue, she led me away to a marble building that adjoined the baths. I bowed my head, held my nose, and entered. "Well, of course," she reminded me, "it is not as though we do not all come here several times a day. That's just it. We come here often. We are always grateful to find what we need when and where we need it and then we leave. Quickly."

She picked up a bloody menstrual rag, dropping it neatly into a wicker basket. "Some of us leave so quickly that we are unaware of the mess that we have left behind."

I discovered to my surprise that the priestesses were often less fastidious than the priests--I helped to maintain both
latrinas
. Priests and priestesses, like the rest of us, relieve themselves while sitting on wooden seats above a drain that discharges the waste into the main sewer, where it eventually makes its way into manure for the gardens. Despite the incense, nothing could cover the smell in either
latrina
; and, hard as I scrubbed, they never remained clean for long.

"What has excrement to do with Isis?" a young novice railed at my side.

"It is
all
an honor," Flavia reminded her. "Whatever our task, we do the goddess's work."

Mind numbed by all that had happened, I had scant use for philosophy. If I thought at all, it was of the task at hand. Sometimes I looked at my chipped nails and thought of Mother. "The worst takes its time to come and then to pass," she used to say. I cried for days, cried and scrubbed, cried and slept, cried and scrubbed again. The muscles of my arms and shoulders ached constantly; my knees were raw from kneeling. I was very, very tired, yet at the end of the day, alone in my tiny cubicle, I fell asleep crying for my parents.

One morning the mystagogue sent a message that Pilate was waiting impatiently for me in the anteroom. "Let him wait," I said, wielding the
latrina
sponge like a mallet. The next day the holy man himself appeared, urging me to hear my husband out. I shook my head emphatically. "Soon he will cease to ask. He will find another. She will come from a powerful family, one closely aligned with Tiberius, a family known to breed sons. He will want a divorce."

A month passed. To my surprise, Pilate's angry demands continued. I stood firm. There was nothing he could say that I wanted to hear. How could it be, I wondered vaguely, that the man to whom few dared to say no continued to return. The idea did not displease me.

Weeks went by until one afternoon a messenger announced that I had another visitor. This one I was eager to see--Rachel. I had missed her so much. Not only the things she did for me but what she was to me. My dearest, only friend. We rushed into each other's arms and then broke apart, standing back to look at one another. Rachel was Rachel. It was I who had changed and she let me know it. "You are a
domina,
" she exclaimed, her eyes roving over my wrinkled
peplos
. "This is no life for you! What would your father think if he could see you here?"

"
You
worship Isis," I reminded her.

"But I am not a slave to her."

"I'm not a slave! I am an acolyte." Loose wisps of hair straggled down my neck. Self-consciously, I attempted to tuck them back into the braid. "This is the life I have chosen." I put my hand, so red and chapped, on her smooth one and smiled at the incongruity.

Rachel was not amused. "You need me to talk sense into you. You also need me to care for you. When are you going to stop this nonsense? When will you return to the life that you were born for, the life your parents wanted for you? You can honor Isis in your heart, you can come here to worship as much as you please, but--"

"Did Pilate send you here?"

"Yes, he did," she admitted, meeting my eyes squarely. "At first
Dominus
would not allow me to come. He expected you to just give up and come back, but today he asked me to tell you that he is sorry, that he never meant to hurt you."

"Do you believe him?"

"Yes, I do."

I looked beyond her across the garden to the
latrinas
. It would be so easy to go home, to pick up the threads of a life of leisure. I was sick of filth, weary of calluses and aching muscles. "Your place is in the world," the mystagogue had said. Tears welled up in my eyes. I hugged Rachel, burying my head against her
stola
. "No! Tell Pilate no." I turned and ran quickly from the room.

P
ERHAPS
I
WAS GOOD AT CLEANING
LATRINAS
,
AT LEAST
I
NEVER
complained about them as the others did. After a time the mystagogue sought to promote me. "Planning meals for fifty priests and priestesses should be an easy task after all the large banquets you have overseen," he explained.

Straightening my sore back, I looked up from the toilet sponges I had been washing in a large stone trough. Mindless work brought solace. I was afraid to leave its safety. "If you wish to assign
culina
duties, let me peel vegetables or bring food to the tables," I said.

He pulled me around to face him, placing his hands on my shoulders. "Claudia, Claudia, the goddess does not expect this of you. If she wants someone to wait on her, there are many sweet serving girls to do it far better than you can. It is time that you went home."

"
This
is my home."

He shook his head in gentle exasperation. "Very well then, report to the
culina
tomorrow at dawn."

E
ACH MORNING, BEFORE ANY FOOD PREPARATION BEGAN, THE PRIESTESS
in charge brought the ten of us serving maids together in the large whitewashed
culina
. A fire already blazed on the raised hearth, large stone tables were covered with stacks of onions and garlic waiting to be peeled, freshly slaughtered chickens ready for plucking. Silently we thanked Isis for the food we were about to prepare, meditated on our individual tasks, seeing them as part of a whole, and visualizing the successful outcome of our joint effort. I accepted the idea at first without thinking, but, as weeks turned to months, a sense of community stole over me and I took quiet pleasure in the accomplishment of shared tasks.

At first the others were critical of my fumbling--it was obvious that I would never be a cook--but no one doubted my effort. I volunteered for everything and did the best I could until a visiting priestess from Alexandria was seated at the head table. I was eager to serve her, hoping that she would have news of the high priestess who had befriended me years before. But how different this woman was from my original benefactor! The visiting priestess, unlike any that I had ever met, disdained to speak to a serving maid. When I bowed before her, she turned a haughty beaklike profile to me, refusing to even glance at me. Later, as I approached her with a heavy platter of asparagus that I had harvested myself from the Iseneum garden, she looked contemptuous. "Ugh!
This
is asparagus?"

Rarely had I heard such a scornful tone--and never directed at
me
! Perhaps if she had not looked so much like Sempronia...The priestess's expression of smug superiority turned to horror as the buttered asparagus spears pitched onto her lap.

No one believed that the platter had just slipped. I was confined to my room for a month with nothing to do but meditate on Isis's scripture. How delicious, I thought, the first time I slept past dawn. Surprisingly, as time elapsed, I missed the
culina
ballet of which I had finally become a part. I thought almost longingly of the other acolytes grinding herbs on the stone
moratarium
or crushing wheat into flour on grindstones. For a time I even missed the smell of fish smoking in heavy iron pots over the fire. At least I had been a part of something. Fingering the sistrum I still wore about my neck, I prayed to Isis.
Where is my place in this world?

The mystagogue dropped by often to lecture me. "Your behavior was a reminder that you are not meant to be an acolyte. Once you wanted marriage--wanted it desperately. Now you belong with your husband."

I sighed, wishing the holy man would leave me in peace. There was nothing to be said.

Then finally a morning came when I was eager to talk. I had had a bizarre dream and longed to share it with someone.

The mystagogue's bland expression changed quickly to one of interest as I related all that I could remember. "I was seated at a sumptuous banquet table. In Rome, I think. There were crimson draperies, heavy draperies, closing us off, and thick carpets. My parents, sister, and I were together again." I paused, trying to clear the lump in my throat. "It--it was all so wonderful, like old times.
Tata
had his arm about Mother. He offered her a silver chalice from which to drink. They were laughing, we were all laughing. And then the dream changed. I was a little girl again, but Marcella was a woman wearing white Vestal robes with her head covered. She climbed up onto the banquet table, scattering plates, silver, food, and flowers in all directions. Marcella started dancing, her feet white against the dark blossoms. She threw off her head covering and her hair fell long and curling just like it used to. Marcella danced faster and faster, the flowers crushed, bleeding across the cloth. The dance was--was wild. Her hair was flying; I saw her legs, her thighs! I felt frightened and turned to
Tata,
but he was gone, Mother too. I cried out for Marcella to get down but she would not...or could not. It was growing dark now. I could no longer see but heard Marcella calling from some black place. 'Claudia, Claudia, help me!'