Household Gods

This stare was different. It hit her after the procession had passed, so that she stopped and turned to stare back at the young fellow who’d written the Christian graffito on the wall.

She should have known better than to think any of this would go unnoticed by her – that is, by Umma’s – offspring. “Who’s that, Mother?” Lucius asked.

Brigomarus had also noticed – she hadn’t even known he was behind her. “Who’s that, Umma?” he asked, echoing Lucius.

She wished he hadn’t spoken her name. The Christian might have heard it. After a moment, she realized how peculiar it was that she’d thought such a thing. This young man didn’t worship one or several of these implausible pagan gods. He worshipped the God she’d been brought up to worship; whether she did or not was beside the point. They should be companions in the spirit. Instead, she didn’t want him to know who she was, where she lived, anything about her. It was a visceral objection, and made no sense at all, but there was no getting around it.

“Who is he?” Lucius and Brigomarus asked again. Aurelia chimed in too, for the evident pleasure of ganging up on her mother.

Nicole grabbed at the first lie that came into her head. “I don’t know his name,” Nicole answered. “He’s come to the tavern a time or two, and had a cup of wine.”

“I never saw him,” Lucius said.

“Me, either,” Aurelia said.

Nicole drew a steadying breath – and pulled rank: a thing she’d sworn she’d never do, every time her own mother did it. “You haven’t seen everything that goes on in the world, even when you think you have,” she said.

The kids shut up, which was exactly what she’d wanted, and Brigomarus said, “Oh. Well then. I guess there’s nothing to worry about, though he looks a little crazy to me. Staring at you like that – you’d think he had designs on you.”

Damn him, just when she’d thought he’d leave well enough alone, he had to turn into the overprotective brother. He was supposed to be at odds with her; not butting into her life as if he had every right to do it.

She couldn’t even speak in the young Christian’s defense. It was too dangerous – for him and for her. And, she had to admit, he did look a little crazy. “He hasn’t given me any trouble,” she said rather lamely.

“Good.” Brigomarus started to turn away, then hesitated. “Stay well. If you don’t, send your slave – “

“My freedwoman,” Nicole said sharply.

He made a sour face. “Your freedwoman. Send your freedwoman to me or to Ila or Tabica. We’ll do what we can for you, in spite of everything.”

They would, too, though they’d make her pay in guilt for every minute. Still – after all, and however reluctantly, he meant well. She thanked him, which he took as no less than his due, and gathered up Lucius and Aurelia. “Come on, chicks. We’ve got a tavern to run.”

Julia had things well in hand. She also had a mark on the side of her neck, which Nicole knew hadn’t been there when she took the children to the funeral. Nicole couldn’t decide whether to ream the woman out or to burst into laughter. In the end, she didn’t quite do either. She was disappointed to discover that she couldn’t find a precise Latin equivalent for hickey.

Business – hers, if not Julia’s – was slow. People were staying away from taverns for fear of catching the pestilence, or else were too sick to leave their beds. Whichever it was, the place wasn’t bringing in much in the way of cash.

“We’re not using so much, either,” Julia said when Nicole commented on it – complained, really, if she wanted to be honest. “A lot of what we sell won’t go stale. It will keep till things pick up again.”

Nicole nodded. That was true – if things ever did decide to improve again.

She spent much of the afternoon grinding flour, until her shoulder started grinding, too. She was stockpiling, figuring to get ahead of the game; then she could have a few relatively easy days later on. The prospect of a break of any kind, relatively easy days, made her work all the harder. She hadn’t had much time off since she came to Carnuntum.

Deafened by the gritty rumble of the quern, she didn’t notice the man who came into the tavern until he rapped the table at which he was sitting. She put on her company face, the one she reserved for customers, with a smile still bright after the long slow day – until she recognized the eyes that lifted to meet hers. Her smile evaporated. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”

“Yes, Mistress Umma.” The young Christian smiled. “It is I.” The smile was a little wider than it might have been; his eyes glittered even in the gloom of the tavern. Nicole had seen smiles like that on Hare Krishnas at airports, on Jehovah’s Witnesses who came to the door. The people behind the smiles were usually harmless, but…

She did her best to hide her unease. “What can I get you?” she asked him.

“Bread and wine,” he answered. He was watching her closely – too closely. He noticed how she hesitated on hearing those words. His smile widened. There was triumph in it. “You know the meaning of bread and wine?”