Household Gods

He didn’t go away. Not hardly. “You open in there!” he bellowed in atrocious Latin. “You open, or we burn. With fire, we burn.”

Was that what had happened beyond the market square? She didn’t doubt for an instant that he’d do it. The place would go up like a torch, and the whole block with it – maybe this whole part of the city.

Whatever these barbarians did to her, it couldn’t be worse than burning alive. If rape is inevitable, her self-defense instructor had said – not reluctantly enough, she’d thought at the time – lie as still as you can, and don’t resist. You’re less likely to get hurt. Some of the students had argued with him, she remembered. But not the ones who had been raped or mugged. They’d nodded, if bitterly. That was the way it was, they said. And wishing wouldn’t make it any different.

Her feet moved of themselves, carrying her blindly toward the pounding. She drew the bar and opened the door.

He was huge, this German. Her head was level with his great barrel of a chest, just about where a bloodstain spattered across his breastplate. It was Roman armor, legionary issue, though that must have been one big legionary.

She raised her eyes from the stain, which she doubted very much was his own blood, to a face that took her every fear, and studied it, and assured her solemnly: it was true. It was pure, unadulterated male, male in the worst sense, male as predator. Lust, ferocity, arrogance – he would do whatever he damn well pleased with her and to her. It didn’t matter the least bit in the world, what she thought or felt. He wanted. He took. That was the way of his world.

He sucked in a deep breath, drinking in the rich scent of his own power. And something a lot more pungent than that.

His nose wrinkled. His first expression was of incredulity. His second, disgust. He made a guttural sound deep in his throat, half a gag, half a snarl.

One of the other Germans called out to the man in front of Nicole. She couldn’t understand a word, but she could well deduce what he was saying: What the devil are you waiting for? Grab her and let’s get on with it!

The German turned his head to answer. Whatever he said, it sounded furious. When he turned back to Nicole, his expression was even uglier than before.

That part, she hadn’t thought through. If he was too revolted to rape her, he could perfectly well kill her instead, and have nearly as good a time doing it. Quick – she had to think quickly.

She beckoned, and spoke slowly and carefully, in case he could understand Latin. “Here, sir. Come in. Would you and your friends like some wine.?”

“Wine?” the German repeated. As the word sank in, he grinned, displaying a mouthful of strong yellow teeth. He shouted it out with a roar of glee. “Wine!”

Maybe the word was the same in their language as in Latin; maybe it was simply a Latin word they all knew. Either way, they all came running. They hadn’t bothered – or, more likely, hadn’t got round to – slaughtering Antonina as the climax to their sport. Even as Nicole shrank back to let the Germans crowd into the tavern, she saw how it ended. Slowly, like a dog whipped and then forgotten, Antonina crawled past the pool of blood around her husband’s corpse, and into her house.

Julia, thank God, had kept her wits about her, though the place was bursting at the seams with Germans. Maybe she reckoned the bar was defense enough to her peace of mind. She stood behind it, dipping up cups as fast as she could. Her face was pale and set; despite the evidence of Nicole’s safety, she didn’t fully trust the stink to protect her. And yet it did – all the more since she was giving the Germans something else they wanted.

Giving? Once they got drunk (or, in some cases, drunker), what would they do? Shopkeepers got killed all too often in Los Angeles robberies; Nicole wasn’t fool enough to think things were any different here.

A thought struck her. It was wild. It was probably crazy. It might get her killed. And yet – maybe, if this wasn’t a robbery… “My friends,” she said, which was a vagrant assumption without means of support if she’d ever seen one, “my friends, the wine is two asses a cup.”

She’d got their attention, and then some. They all stared at her. Julia’s eyes were wider than any of the Germans’. Those who had understood translated for the few who hadn’t. Then they all started to laugh. Some of the laughter was amused. Some – more – was nasty.

One of them, who wore his hair in a topknot that reminded Nicole forcibly of one of the sillier beach-bunny fashions in Malibu, proved to speak rather decent Latin: “Why should we pay for what we can take?”

“If you take without paying, how will anyone in Carnuntum be able to get more for you to have later?” Nicole countered.