Household Gods

That phrase wouldn’t mean anything to Kimberley and Justin. All they’d know would be CDs and tapes. Records would be primitive, outmoded. She laughed. She’d learned more about primitive and outmoded than she’d ever dreamt possible. Was a record primitive in an oxcart?

She was aware enough to realize her wits were starting to wander. When she thought about it, she could force them back into – or close to – their proper path. When she didn’t think about it, they started drifting again.

Brigomarus came in that afternoon. He was still healthy, but he looked grim. “Flavius Probus just died, ‘ he said. He didn’t sound astonished, as an American would have been to announce the death of someone in the prime of life. He sounded weary; this was but one more death piled on many. “He – Umma, are you listening to me?”

“Yes,” Nicole answered. It wasn’t easy to make herself pay attention, but she managed. “Too bad about him.”

“Too bad? Is that all you can say?” Brigomarus started to cloud up, but checked himself. He took a long look at her. “Oh, by the gods, you’ve got it, too.”

“I think so,” Nicole said vaguely. Again, she forced herself to focus. “You’d better go home, Brigo. It’s catching from person to person, you know. I don’t suppose I want to make you sick.” She wouldn’t have put it that way if she’d been well, but she wouldn’t have had to warn him then, either.

He didn’t take offense. Maybe he didn’t notice the way she phrased it; maybe he made allowances for the pestilence. He said, “As long as I’m well, I’ll come back and see how you’re doing. I’ll do what I can for you – you are my sister, no matter how – “ He broke off. “You are my sister.”

“That’s true. I am your sister.” It was nice to know they could agree on something.

Brigomarus didn’t linger after that. Nicole was interested to see how he got up and drifted out the door, moving as if he were underwater. After a while – Nicole wasn’t sure how long – Julia said, “Mistress, you ought to go upstairs and go to bed.”

“No, that’s what you do,” Nicole said: the first thing that popped into her head. She laughed. She thought it was funny. But she didn’t have a sense of humor. Nothing was funny to her. Frank had said it often enough. “Dawn makes me laugh,” he’d said after he split. Damned blasted cliche.

Damn: she was sicker than she’d thought.

Julia didn’t seem to think the joke was very funny, and Julia did have a sense of humor. “I don’t mean go to bed with anyone,” she said. Maybe she, like Brigomarus, was making allowances. Maybe she was just feeling literal. “I mean by yourself, to rest.”

“But I can’t rest.” Even through the haze of illness, Nicole knew that. “If I rest, the work won’t get done.” Yes, she sounded like Julius Rufus. She pressed her hand to her own forehead. She was hot. She didn’t think she was as hot as the brewer had been, but her palm was hot, too, so she couldn’t be sure. “I’ve got to go on.”

“What if you fall over?” Julia asked reasonably.

“If I fall over, I probably would have fallen over in bed, too,” Nicole replied. “You can drag me upstairs then.” Maybe I’ll die on the way up. Maybe I’ll take two aspirins and feel better in the morning. No. No aspirins. She remembered – no aspirins. But something… something. “The willow-bark decoction!” she exclaimed, inordinately proud that she’d remembered.

But Julia said, “We haven’t got any more. Poor Fabia Ursa used what we had – and how much good did it do her?”

Nicole hadn’t remembered that. “Go out and buy a new jar.” It had done a little good when she’d been down with the galloping trots. Maybe it would do a little good now. Would that be enough? What could Nicole do but hope?

Julia seemed eager to snatch whatever hope she could find. She scooped coins out of the cash box and left at a lope. After she was gone – quite a while after – Nicole realized she had no idea how much money Julia had scooped up. Well, if her freedwoman had ripped her off, she damn well had, and that was that.

Julia came back fairly quickly with a little jar clutched in her hand. She dumped a handful of money back in the cash box. Either she’d been honest or she was covering her tracks. Nicole rebuked herself as soon as she’d thought that, poured the potion into a cup of wine and honey, and drank it down. It still tasted hideously bitter – yes, like aspirin in the back of her throat. She chopped onions, trying not to chop off any fingers while she was doing it, and waited to see if the medicine would help.