Pilate's Wife

by Antoinette May

  “I am sorry on both counts, but you know the rules.”

  “Stop saying that! I don’t know the rules. Who are you?”

  “The mistress of the ritual.”

  “What ritual? Who are those women?”

  “Ladies from the highest classes, like yourself,” Portia assured me.

  “What about the red-haired one? Miriam? Who is she?”

  “How astute you are! Miriam is a bit different. She is a courtesan.”

  “You knew that and invited her?”

  “Of course, we know the backgrounds of all our devotees. She is of the very highest order, somewhat similar to your husband’s favorite. What is her name…Titania.”

  “If your purpose is to humiliate me—”

  “Not at all.” Portia touched my arm lightly. “I merely meant that women like Titania and Miriam are welcome anywhere. Both are wealthy and well connected, but that, of course, is where the similarity ends. Titania cares only for powerful men. Miriam is quite different. She is philosophical, a patron of the arts, some might even say spiritual.”

  “Then why did she become a harlot?”

  “Oh, that is harsh. Is her life so different from your own? Miriam at least has independence.”

  “Then what is she doing here? What are any of you doing here?”

  “We are as we seem…women with the means and inclination to attain power beyond earthly imagination.”

  My throat constricted. I could barely speak. “What do you want of me?”

  Portia’s dark eyes glittered as they swept over my body. “Tonight you will be the bride of Dionysus.”

  I LAY ON A NARROW COT. BEFORE ME WAS A STATUE OF THE GOD, HIS handsome face veiled and unveiled by smoke from the pungent incense burning at his feet. Head reeling from the heavy fumes, I felt infused by Dionysus’s life-giving, seminal moisture, pure, mindless, liberating.

  Dionysus brings wildness; a faraway voice warned of terror as well as ecstasy. The god’s frenzied devotees tear animals apart. In their madness, sometimes they devour each other. Was I to be their victim? Pulling myself off the cot, I pounded on the door with all the vigor my strangely languorous hands could summon. What was the matter with me? In the distance I heard approaching footsteps.

  “Yes, Domina, we are coming,” a voice assured me. A moment or so later I heard the bolt scrape and the door swing open. Two female slaves bowed low before me. Each carried a thyrsus, a kind of wand with a pinecone wound into the staff. I had seen it pictured in countless frescoes. Were they maenads, handmaidens of Dionysus?

  One slave stepped forward. “If it pleases the goddess, we have come to prepare you.”

  “If it pleases the goddess? “I echoed, the words slow to my tongue.

  Portia, standing behind them, beckoned. “We honor you tonight as Ariadne.”

  “Ariadne!” My legs went limp. I would have fallen had it not been for the slaves. All my life I had cherished a connection with Ariadne. What cruel irony was this? I struggled to keep my voice steady. “What do you mean?”

  “There is no need for you to understand,” Portia murmured. “It is enough that you are Ariadne and will soon join your divine lover. Come, my dear.”

  Kithara music filled the passage. Golden candelabra shaped like many branched trees had been set in wall niches along the corridor. Every surface of the hall gleamed luminously. I leaned heavily on the slaves who led me to a marble bath where they removed my clothing. Slipping into the water, I saw the likeness of Dionysus smiling down from the ceiling.

  The women’s hands, gloved in sponges, caressed my naked body. I raised an arm to wave them off, then languidly dropped it. I had lost the will to resist. Their insistence, the pressure of the soft sea sponges, the trickle of soapy water down the valley of my breasts was surprisingly pleasant. Too soon they helped me from the bath, patting me dry with soft linen towels. The slaves covered my body with gold dust, anointed my thighs and breasts with sandalwood. As if in a dream, I felt the sheerest gossamer slip over my head. Examining the delicate fabric, I saw hundreds of tiny brilliants. “They look like stars,” I heard myself say in a strange, breathless voice.

  “They are stars.” Portia purred like a tender mother. “Tonight you are the Queen of Heaven.”

  I shook my head to clear it. “Ariadne’s lover abandoned her. Some say she died.”

  “But she returned transformed,” Portia gently reminded me. “Ariadne’s mortal lover abandoned her—as so often happens—but Dionysus came for her as he will come for you.” Portia placed a bridal crown of myrtle on my head. “You, too, oh, lovely one—daughter of mighty Minos—shall reign as a goddess and know all that a goddess knows.”

  She guided me down the hall. A door was thrust open. My breath caught at the sight before me. Women wrapped in panther skins crowded the room. Many struck cymbals, pounded drums, or blew flutes. Others, twined with garlands, danced and sang. I could not understand the wild and blurry words, nor did I recognize the celebrants, for they wore masks. Above their swaying breasts and smooth shoulders were the heads of lions and leopards.

  They surrounded me, twisting and writhing, weaving one circle, then two and three. As they drank freely from wineskins passed among them, the women’s cries grew louder. The music, the wine, the excitement of the dancers was infectious. Someone offered me a cup. “Drink the wine of Dionysus.” As I savored the contents, unlike anything I had ever tasted, my fears melted. I am a force of nature, I am the sap running in a tree, the blood pounding in the veins, the liquid fire of the grape. Was this not how life was meant to be—drinking the sweet red wine and smelling the rich musky fragrance of the women pushing in around me?

  The dancers whirled, twisting this way and that, taking the wine into their mouths and spraying it between their teeth into a thin mist. It stuck to me, enveloping me, mingling with the pungent smoke from many tripods scattered throughout the room. Head swimming, I glimpsed two new figures and strained to see more clearly. They carried a large wicker basket and were walking slowly toward me.

  Someone held a small bowl on a tripod before me, forcing me to inhale its acrid fumes. My lungs filled to bursting. Sensations of every kind assaulted me. Each sound, each sight intensified almost beyond bearing. Every pore tingled and pulsated with a life of its own. I screamed as colors I could not name exploded before my eyes in grotesque shapes. Each part of me pulled in a different direction. My patrician status, the power and privilege, however fleeting, that feminine grace and beauty brought me were ripped away until I was stripped of every defense, every trick, every shred of personality. Finally only my trembling soul remained alone and vulnerable. Holy Isis, be with me. If I must endure this death, let me use it to save my loved ones.

  The basket lay before me, lid open. I saw the leather rod with straps at one end. My heart was ready to explode. A masked woman tied the straps about her waist. I shrieked and struggled to free myself as the tall, muscular figure advanced toward me. Women surrounded me, holding me fast while others swiped at me with small leather whips. At first the strokes were short and stung like light rain, but soon they came harder and faster. I struggled frantically as they dragged me toward a couch.

  The woman with the rod climbed on top of me. Or was it a woman? Dionysus’s spear of fire seemed to be everywhere, over and around me, assaulting me, enveloping me, dominating me. The singing and the music grew even louder, drowning out my screams until after a time even I no longer heard them. Again and again I was consumed by the god until I was finally one with him. I heard the rushing waters of the Styx, saw white-haired Charon waiting. The forms of so many that I had loved waited on the other side, but not Marcella and Holtan. They were here in this world. “No!” I cried, but the sound was no more than a whisper. “I don’t want to die, I don’t…”

  MUCH LATER THE MUSIC SLOWED, ALTERING SUBTLY UNTIL IT HAD changed to a soft lullaby. Gentle hands ministered to me, slipping away the ripped gown and replacing the soiled covering beneath me with a fresh on
e. Deft fingers washed away the wine and blood from my bruised body and carefully dressed me in a satin gown studded with seed pearls and richly embroidered in a pattern of golden stars. Propped up by silken pillows, I watched as one by one the women removed their masks. Covering their nakedness now with luminous robes, they knelt before me.

  “It is time, Great Ariadne, to tell us what you see.”

  I turned my head. It was Portia who spoke, a very different Portia. This woman regarded me with reverence as she slowly advanced. In her hands was a silver bowl, which she placed on a small table before me. Portia’s voice was hoarse, hardly more than a whisper, as she asked, “Will the goddess share that which she sees?”

  I looked down at the bowl. It was filled with clear water. Just water. But as I continued to stare into its depth, the liquid swirled. Visions slowly appeared, only to fade again. They made no sense, yet filled me with apprehension. I pushed the bowl away. I would not do it. Unheeding, the women pressed forward, jostling one another in their eagerness.

  They had forced me into this, why should they not face the consequences? “You won’t like what I see,” I warned.

  The women ignored my words, jostling each other, murmuring impatiently among themselves. Portia held her place in front.

  I looked again into the bowl, studying the shapes I saw drawing closer, clearer. “Your husband has been posted to Germania,” I told her.

  “Yes, yes, everyone knows that.”

  “Perhaps. But everyone does not know about the chieftain’s daughter. She is blond and very beautiful. Their alliance is political, but he will come to value it for other reasons. Your husband will never return to Rome.”

  “That is impossible!”

  “He will never return to Rome.”

  Turning to another, the master gardener, who had pushed her way to the front, I said, “You want to know about your daughter, your only daughter.”

  The woman nodded eagerly.

  “She will conceive. She will have a son, a beautiful, healthy boy, but she herself will die.”

  Another woman crowded in beside her. “Can you tell me about my house here in Pompeii? I have been offered a good price. Should I sell it?”

  I felt a wave of heat, the breath sucked from my lungs. “Yes…yes!” I gasped. “Something terrible will happen here. Take your family. Leave this place.”

  Miriam stood before me now, eyes large. I struggled with a vision, trying to understand. Bizarre, frightening. What did it mean? My sight was already fading. “You think there is nothing left for you in Galilee, but you are wrong. You must return. Go home. There you will find your greatest love, a man unlike any other. I see much joy for you. I see a crown…” I broke off. Was this man a king? Then why a crown of thorns? What did it mean? What should I say to her? “Miriam, go now!” I gasped. “Your time with him is short.”

  Miriam caught her breath. “Claudia, what do you mean? How will I know him?”

  The others pushed forward, each with a question. Whatever the gift’s source, it would soon be gone. Surely, I reasoned, I have earned the use of this power for myself. Closing my eyes to the pleading faces, I looked into the void. For one awful moment, I saw nothing. Then, at last, Holtan’s form appeared before me.

  But was it Holtan? Gone were the power and grace I knew and loved so well. I scarcely recognized the strangely shrunken body lying before me. Why the haggard face, the pain-filled eyes? I saw no wounds, but surmised they must be terrible. Holtan’s lips moved. I struggled to hear.

  “I had—had to see you—Claudia,” he gasped in a raspy whisper.

  CHAPTER 29

  The Goddess Livia

  The Villa of Mysteries was quiet now. One by one the others had slipped away. Numb with fatigue, I sat with my back against a marble column, feet dangling in the lily pond.

  “May I join you? I have come to say good-bye.”

  Startled, I looked up, squinting in the morning sunlight. I had dozed off. Now I saw Miriam, a slim figure in a russet stola, standing in the archway. She was dressed for traveling. “You must be returning to Rome?”

  Smiling, she shook her head. “No, I am going to Judaea. Perhaps I will find my lover there, the man you saw in your vision.” She drew closer, her eyes on mine. “Tell me, Claudia, how will I know him?”

  I struggled to recall the image. “He has a wonderful face…eyes that reach into one’s very soul.” Eyes that reach into one’s soul. Had I seen those eyes somewhere else? That face…Impossible, this was Miriam’s life, not mine. I struggled to recapture what I had originally seen for her the previous night. It had all been so confused. There was joy…but also…oh no! I paused, hesitant to say more. “I see great love for you, but also sadness.”

  Miriam smiled ruefully. “I have never experienced great love. Perhaps it is worth some sadness.” Throwing back her mantle, Miriam sat down beside me. “Did you see something for yourself last night?”

  “Yes.” My eyes filled with tears. “The one I love…I saw him clearly. He had come to me…from far away, I think…but,” my voice sank to a frightened whisper, “he was dying.”

  “The man was not your husband.”

  “No, not my husband.”

  “What will you do?” Miriam asked, her eyes compassionate as they studied me. “What can you do?”

  “I have been thinking. If I never see him again…that terrible thing won’t happen.”

  “Is that possible? What Fortuna has written—”

  “I will not believe that!” I exclaimed, kicking at the water’s placid stillness. “I can change what is written. I must change it!”

  “Then may Isis grant you strength.”

  “And you, as well.”

  We clasped hands, looking deeply into each other’s eyes. When I looked up, I saw a tall Nubian garbed splendidly in gold. He bowed to me from the doorway. “The empress bids you join her.”

  “Take care!” Miriam warned softly.

  I squeezed her arm reassuringly. “I have been to the banks of the Styx itself. Surely I can handle Livia.” Almost sauntering, I followed the slave to the triclinium where the empress breakfasted alone.

  “Good morning, ‘Ariadne.’” Her eyes slanted maliciously as she gestured toward a walnut and ivory chair beside her couch. “So you survived your nuptials. Not everyone is so fortunate.”

  Fortunate, indeed, I thought, watching Livia dribble cream over her figs. How little she knew. “I thought you would be there.”

  “I was there.”

  “I did not see you.”

  “But I saw you. Quite a performance.”

  My chair scraped across the marble tiles as I leaned forward. “You cannot imagine the gift you have given me.” I met her gaze coolly. “I am very grateful.”

  “Oh, for Jupiter’s sake!” Livia exclaimed, eyes blazing like emeralds. “What have you to tell me?”

  “I am surprised you did not ask last night with the others.”

  “I am the empress, you stupid girl! Tell me now, will I be a goddess or not? What did you see for me?”

  I had seen nothing related to Livia, yet the lives of Marcella and Holtan depended upon the right answer. The empress was shrewd; I would have to make it good. Isis help me!

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, intoning: “Your name will live long into the future.” Another breath. “In fact…” The sacred space eluded me; I saw only blackness. “In fact…” I paused again, the lie that I had prepared frozen on my tongue. What could I say to her? There was nothing…and then, to my amazement, a shocking image took shape. “Much of the Palantine is in ruins. People wandering through the rubble wearing strange clothing and speaking languages that I have never heard. They walk about looking at crumbling walls and pointing their fingers at…at nothing, really. There’s nothing to see but fallen columns, piles of debris. Part of it may be the forum, but I am not certain…So little remains…”

  “But what about me?” Livia urged impatiently.

  “These s
trangers seem to know you,” I continued slowly. What was I seeing? My world, all that I knew and cherished had crumbled to nothing. “There is a sign with your name and an arrow pointing the way to your house. It too is a ruin, but better preserved than the rest. People go there and stand, almost in awe, looking at the mosaic on your floor. Why that should be, I cannot imagine, since it is very faded.”

  As I strained to make sense of what I saw, the vision slowly faded until it was gone. What dreadful thing had I been shown? I opened my eyes to find Livia smiling delightedly. “That settles it! Of course I am to be a goddess. What else could it mean?” She leaned back expansively. “You have done your job well. I shall allow you to join your husband in Herculaneum. You may tell him that you have been my guest these past two days.” She dismissed me with a glance and reached again for the cream pitcher.

  “But my baby—Marcella—is she all right?”

  Livia shrugged. “So far as I know. She is with your husband.”

  I drew a deep breath. “And Holtan?”

  “Unharmed. I shall release him when I return to Rome.” Livia turned her attention to the figs, islands in a sea of cream. “Oh yes, there is something else.” She looked up briefly. “Last night I received a message. Pilate’s son by that alley cat Titania has died of a sudden fever. No doubt your husband will look to you for comfort. I never thought him overfond of Titania, but the boy, that is another matter. I hear he was a handsome lad—took after Pilate.”

  She paused to spread honey on a slice of bread. “I shall have a word with Tiberius—see if he can arrange something for Pilate. Something outside of Rome. I am weary of seeing that face of yours at banquets. Your gray eyes annoy me.” Her head nodded perfunctorily; I was released.

  With Isis’s help I had managed to survive Livia’s capricious cruelty. But what awaited me in Herculaneum?

  OUR NEW VILLA—LIKE HOLTAN’S—HAD A DOUBLE PORTAL, HEAVILY studded, bronze-hinged, firmly bolted. I waited like any outsider while the groom that Livia had sent with me pounded forcefully. Almost at once the door was opened by a porter I did not know. Fair, tall, and broad, probably a Thracian. He studied me uncertainly.