The Tea Machine

by Gill McKnight

  “Come on.” Jana’s hands were pecking at her again, twisting and tugging her clothes loose. “I’ll get in trouble because of you.”

  “Who is that…that woman? The matron?” Millicent could think of a better name for the hard faced harridan, but desisted. She began to reluctantly undress.

  “Cybele is the tea matron. She manages the temple and the tea maids, and she’s a bitch. Don’t be getting on the wrong side of her or you’ll suffer and then some.” She sighed. “Gods, but you wear a lot of clothes. Is it cold where you’re from? Where was that; did you say?”

  “Britannia.” Millicent took a chance on mentioning her homeland as the last of her clothes fell in an ungainly heap at her feet.

  “Britannia!” Jana exclaimed in horror. “No wonder you’re bundled up. I hear it would freeze the teats off a pig up there.”

  Millicent had no answer for that.

  “Get into the water, and I’ll send these off to the laundry,” Jana instructed. She was a bossy little thing, but Millicent complied.

  “When will I get them back?” she asked, wondering if the steam mechanization she saw everywhere allowed for extra quick laundering.

  “You’ll wear a tunic like mine during the day, and then there’ll be a toga for the evening when the worshipers arrive.” Jana indicated her simple mustard coloured tunic with its plaited belt of stringed leather. Millicent was aghast, she didn’t want to wear that…that horse blanket, not even for one second. Nor did she like the way Jana said worshipers, as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

  “I prefer to wear my own clothes,” she said, reaching for them.

  Jana whipped them out of reach. “No way; they stink of fish. Did you come here in a trawler?”

  “You don’t like these worshipers, do you? Who are they?” Millicent asked to distract her while she attempted to snag back a garment. It was turning into a game where she was outsmarted by Jana’s sneaky twists and turns every time she made a lunge for her clothes.

  “They’re the creeps that come here for evening worship and buy tea so they can fill up the urns.” The derision was clear in her voice.

  Cassian had called her an urn. “What exactly do you mean by urns?” She suspected it would be something distasteful.

  Jana spluttered with bitter mirth before realizing Millicent wasn’t joking. Her face fell serious. “You, and young women like you, are brought here to be urns. You entertain the worshipers with your bodies,” she said plainly. Millicent recoiled in horror, and Jana took the opportunity to deftly whisk the clothes out of her reach once and for all.

  “That’s why the matron bought you. Some girls are selected to be urns, and others, like me, see to the domestic chores. Let me tell you, if I had your looks, I’d be tempted. Some urns end up marrying well. Granted the old coots are knocking on Hades door, but even so—”

  “I have absolutely no intention of being an urn!” Millicent made a doomed grab for her clothes. She had to get out of this heinous house of iniquity. How on earth had Sophia managed to build a cult around tea and debauchery? They hardly went hand in hand.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Jana said. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I’ve got work to do. In you go, little urn.” And she pushed Millicent into the pool.

  Millicent surfaced spluttering angrily. The water came up to her chest. Above her Jana slipped out of her own tunic, collected a dish, and joined her in the water.

  “I made this fresh this morning,” Jana said and began to rub an exfoliate over Millicent’s back and shoulders and then her upper arms. It was lovely. Millicent stopped surging about to appreciate the luxuriant massage. The oil smelled beautiful.

  “What is that?” she found herself asking. It felt wonderful to have the sweat and grime scrubbed off so deliciously.

  “Olive oil and sea salt. And I added some neroli.” Jana began to sluice Millicent’s back and arms. “Fresh is best. If it’s left too long the olive smell is overpowering.” She handed Millicent the bowl. “You can do your face. Mind your eyes though, the salt stings.” She began to lather Millicent’s hair with an equally divine smelling product. “This is my own recipe,” she said. “The stuff they use here is shocking. Lye soap, I ask you? No wonder their hair looks like rats nests.” She massaged up a surplus of lather, and Millicent moaned at the luxury of it all.

  “This is why Matron keeps me on,” Jana continued. She was obviously in a chatty mood for her hands became less brisk and she took her time. “I mayn’t be a beauty, but I’m indispensable to her. I manufacture all the soaps for the urns.” She began to rinse. “Keeps me on her sweet side, otherwise I’d be down the market quicker than a whiplash.”

  Having seen the matron’s unsweet side, Millicent could only agree with Jana’s philosophy.

  “Don’t annoy her. She’s dangerous,” Jana warned. Then said, “Now hold your nose.” She forcefully ducked Millicent under the water. When she spluttered back to the surface, Jana was still yammering on about the abuses young women underwent to partake of the tea. “We sign our lives away to come here.”

  “Like a nun.” Millicent wiped the water out of her eyes. The correlation popped into her head and out of her mouth at the same time.

  “An urn.” Jana looked at her as if she were stupid. “Young women come here from all over the Empire hoping to either make a fortune, or marry one. Even the temple slaves can make enough to buy their own freedom, if Matron approves, that is.” She seemed cheered by the thought of wealth for all.

  “I thought the temples belonged to the state?” Millicent recalled her school lessons from long time past.

  Jana shrugged. “The tea temple is different. It’s a franchise and Matron owns this one.” A sliver of pride crept into her voice. “And I make it smell good. Now, out.” She was all business again. “We need to get you dry as toast.”

  This time Millicent did as she was told. Jana clambered out, and Millicent followed her to an adjacent chamber. There was no pool and the room was heated to a high temperature. Millicent assumed she was to stand here until her body dried. Instead she was given a cup of water and ordered to sit down.

  “It’s best to keep drinking in the heat. Now sit quietly while I get my oils and give you a nice rub down.” Then Jana was gone.

  Millicent considered sneaking away, but she was naked and lost and the lethargic heat was sucking the last ounce of resistance from her weak limbs. The stone seat was warm under her bottom, and she leaned back against the painted wall. This time, the murals were an elaborate seascape of shells, waves, and fantastical fish. Instead of drying off, she found she was perspiring, and her bones were melting with the delicious, relaxing heat. Tension oozed out of her. She sat and sipped her water in an exhausted stupor. Her resolve was at an all-time low, completely outflanked by circumstance and the dull, perpetual nag of not knowing what to do. She needed to find the others and somehow organize an escape, yet the task felt gargantuan, and she felt so small.

  “No snoozing.” Jana appeared beside her. “Let’s get you to the unctorium before you nod off. I’ve got the oil warmed and ready. Then you can have a bite to eat and afterwards take a nice nap.”

  The unctorium was next door. Millicent sprawled face down on the stone slab as Jana liberally covered her from head to toe in sweet smelling almond oil, and then massaged it deep into her muscles.

  Millicent moaned. She had never felt anything so luxurious, or so decadent, in her entire life. This had to be the work of the devil, but she was beyond caring. She would happily burn in hell for such a wonderful, relaxing experience. A cold knife blade touched her skin and made her jolt. Fear coursed through her. She had let her guard down and was about to be stabbed to death.

  “What’s wrong?” Jana asked. “This is the best bit.”

  Millicent turned over to find the girl standing beside her with a strigil in her hand waiting to scrape the excess
oil off her body. She felt silly. She knew how Roman baths worked.

  “Are they all as jumpy as you in Britannia?” Jana grumped and went to work with the curved blade. “Now, roll over so I can do the back of your legs.”

  It was another seductive temptation, and Millicent fell into it with shivering bliss. I am a weak, ineffectual woman, she scolded herself, but gently.

  “That’s you all done. Shiny as a new kettle, you are,” Jana said eventually. She helped pull a simple linen tunic over Millicent’s head. It was pure white and practically glowed beside the drab yellow one Jana wore.

  “Use this to gather it in.” Jana handed over a thin plait of leather that knotted at the waist.

  “Follow me,” she ordered and took off down another long corridor. They were moving into the bowels of the temple, and the air grew cooler and quieter.

  “This is a huge building,” Millicent said. “It didn’t look half as big from the outside.” As Jana was a friendly, talkative type, Millicent began to question her, hoping not to reveal the true complexity of her alien status.

  “It’s Rome. Everything has to be the biggest and the best, or Severus will tear it down. This is the High Tea Temple of Rome. There are thousands of them all over the Empire. Sure, weren’t you were recruited from one in Britannia?” She cast Millicent a curious sideways look.

  Millicent didn’t answer. She was too busy trying to orientate herself. It was becoming clear to her the temple had a web-like layout, with a central hub she had yet to see.

  “Or were you bought at the market?” Jana asked, slyly. “You were, weren’t you?” Surprise showed in her eyes before turning to sympathy. “Nevermind. I was, too,” she added, taking any sting out of her words.

  Millicent hesitated. She was more aghast than stung. Bought? Oh, good Lord, Jana’s a slave, and she thinks I’m one, too. It never occurred to her that this might be the case. This was not good; if she was supposed to be a slave, then it could seriously limit her mobility in this world.

  “Was that why the people at the fish market were giving me harsh looks?” she asked. Perhaps a female slave should not be out and about without a chaperon?

  Jana snorted. “Most of the vendors are freedmen; who are they to give harsh looks?” She glanced over playfully. “You talk quaint. Is that the way they speak in Britannia?”

  “Then why were they so upset with me? They looked nasty. It was the same in the spice market, too.”

  “Because of the tea tax. Tea maidens go out to collect it. You look sort of like a tea maid with that flouncy tunic you had on. Is it what they’re wearing in Britannia these days? Because it looks awful. It’s a shockingly bad imitation of the real thing. Matron will not be happy. Can’t have counterfeits out there; she’ll go daft if people are copying the temple style.”

  The taffeta had cost Millicent quite a penny from Swanson and George of Mayfair, and it amused her for it to be seen as inferior quality to the Roman version.

  “So, the tea maidens collect taxes?” she asked, as Jana ushered her into another smaller room, this one was lit naturally through large windows that opened out into a quiet, bright courtyard. Jana pushed Millicent down on to a low wooden stool.

  “And the urns sell produce in the square out front?” Millicent returned to her questioning.

  “Yes,” Jana answered. “You start out as an urn, and then, one day you’re allowed to wear the bustle and handle money. We’ll see to your hair next. You like it up, don’t you?”

  She sat still while Jana fussed over her locks, piling and pinning her curls into some semblance of order. “Are you an urn, too?” Millicent asked.

  “No. I haven’t the face or figure for it,” Jana answered. “Too thin. Not like you.” She gave Millicent a little pinch. “You’ve got the kind of curves all the tea sippers like. Bet you dance like a dream.”

  Millicent was mortified. Dance? “I’ll be damned if I’m going to dance for tea sippers.” Oh! Her hand flew to her mouth. How easy it was to slip into Sangfroid’s profanity.

  “You’ll make a fortune and earn your bustle in no time. Then you can get out of here.” There was no malice in Jana’s voice, just resignation.

  “How do I do that?” Millicent asked, though she had no intention of staying at all.

  It was a careless question, and Jana showed considerable surprise. “Why, as a tea maid you get to keep a cut of whatever you collect. That’s how you buy your way out. That’s why the tea is so popular a career path with the poorer girls. You can make a fortune and start a new life, hopefully with some rich old fool in tow. Some girls have gone on to be career mistresses.” She seemed impressed, while Millicent suppressed a shiver. What a horrid place this was.

  The outer halls began to echo with voices and footsteps, while outside, in the leafy courtyard, girlish laughter rang out.

  “Siesta is over,” Jana said resignedly. “We’d better go to afternoon prayers.”

  “Is she here?” Millicent asked anxiously.

  “Who?”

  “Looselea.” Sophia might actually be lodged in the same building, feted as a goddess. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, in a strange way? And, if so, would Millicent be able to pry her away? Sophia must be terrified by this world; at least Millicent hoped she was. Otherwise it would be impossible to get her to leave all the adoration behind and return home.

  “Britannia really is the ass-end of nowhere.” Jana shook her head sadly at the question and led Millicent away. Millicent took this response to mean that the goddess was not present at her own temple. She followed Jana dejectedly. More fool her for thinking there might be an easy way out.

  Young women were converging in the corridors. Together, she and Jana flowed with the throng into a massive chamber.

  “Where are we now?” she asked, looking around with awe.

  “The Hall of the Seven Kettles. This is where it all happens,” Jana told her in hushed tones. “Kneel down here.”

  Around them women knelt in rows facing to the front where a pulpit, of sorts, stood to the side of a large statue. Millicent gazed dumbstruck at the icon. Not because of the exquisite workmanship or pleasing aesthetics, for there were many to appreciate in this piece of classical art, but for its countenance. Before her stood a twenty-foot marble statue of Sophia. She sat decorously on a rock, her stern features rendered smooth and creamy by the beautiful stone. Her dress was of Millicent’s era, and she held a large silver teaspoon in one hand and a kettle in the other. The kettle was tipped forward and poised under the ceiling oculus, so that when filled with rainwater it poured from out of the spout into a giant marble cup and a saucer by the statue’s feet. The teacup was large enough to bathe in, and Millicent suspected its purpose was that of a baptismal font. As if reading her mind Jana pointed to the cup.

  “That’s where the initiates are dunked once they become urns. You’ll be in there soon.”

  Not on your nelly!

  The hush was broken by rustling, as if a flock of starched birds was taking roost at the back of the room. Millicent looked over her shoulder. The last few tiers were filling up with men in snow-white, formal togas. Jana looked back too, and rolled her eyes.

  “The sippers are in. Leery old goat-eyes.”

  “Who are they?” Millicent whispered.

  “Sponsors and wannabes. Some, the richest, keep girls at the temple for their own exclusive use. They’re your future clients. Do you see Cassian in the back row? He has his eye on you. The man with him will be coming here later tonight,” Jana muttered disdainfully. “He’s called Belarus, and he’s a chronic gambler. He’d bet on how high a dog lifts it leg to piss. A couple of absolute losers. Stay away from them if you can.”

  Cassian caught Millicent staring and gave her a cheery finger waggle. She turned away with a shudder. She had to get away from here. Her attention was drawn to the front of the room as Cybele, the tea
matron, mounted the pulpit and gazed down on the assembled. She raised her arms and began a long dirge that Millicent could only take to be a prayer.

  “Oh, Looselea, look upon the dredges and despair. See the splash in the saucer. See the drips upon the tablecloth. How can we give you tea time cheer?” Cybele intoned in an annoying nasal twang. Millicent wondered if the prayer came with the franchise. It was awful.

  “One lump or two.” The congregation intoned back as one. Millicent was startled. She hadn’t expected that.

  “Lift up thy spoon and stir,” Cybele droned on. “Lift up thine cup. Hear thy kettle boil. Hear thy china call, oh great Looselea.”

  “No more goats,” the crowd answered. “No. No. Really. No more goats.”

  And that seemed to be that. How curious, Millicent thought. What had goats to do with anything?

  “We have among us new acolytes who wish to dedicate themselves to the goddess and the indulgences of the tea. Come daughters and bathe in the waters of the perfect brew.”

  Several girls moved shyly to the front and queued to be immersed in the giant tea cup. Millicent saw it was filled with an ugly brown liquid. Jana nudged her.

  “That means you, too,” she said, unenthusiastically nodding at the queue. “You’ll never get that gunk out of your clothes,” she sighed. “That’s why we all run around in ugly yellow tunics. The tannin ruins the linen,” she complained. “Pity you couldn’t have stayed white for a little longer, but I guess Cassian has already booked you anyway.”

  “What’s in that cup?” Millicent hissed back. “And why do I have to get in it?”

  “Goat urine and rainwater.” Jana shoved her, more roughly this time. “Don’t be a ninny. Just go do it. It’s an initiation. We can wash you down again after.”

  Millicent rose unsteadily to her feet and shuffled after the new maidens crowding down the aisle.

  “And don’t swallow any.” Jana whispered after her.