Household Gods

That rankled. And never mind that Nicole had felt remarkably much like it when she first came to Carnuntum. He wasn’t too savory, either, by American standards. Not without soap or deodorant.

He sniffed loudly. In that Latin equivalent of an Oxford accent, he declaimed – said was too mild a word: “The Emperor has received your plea. I am instructed to invite you to supper with him, to discuss the matter.”

He didn’t ask if she’d come. That would have given her too much choice in the matter.

Just for that, she was tempted to be too busy. But the Emperor wasn’t necessarily responsible for the rudeness of his staff – and he was the Emperor. If she tried to play power games with him, she would lose. She didn’t have the faintest hope of winning.

“Yes, of course I’ll come,” Nicole said. Her own words sounded harsh and unlovely in her ears, like raw down-home Indiana next to the most mellifluous Oxbridge.

Julia was staring as if her eyes would fall out of her head. Nicole wondered if there was a single thought behind them, or any emotion but awe.

She didn’t have time for awe. “Wait here while I change my tunic,” she said.

Marcus Aurelius’ messengers looked, just then, as flummoxed as Julia. Nicole smiled at them, nodded, and went serenely upstairs. Not till she was out of their sight did she leap into a run, rip into the bedroom, tear off her ratty old tunic with the grease-stains on the front, and pull on her best one. If she could have showered and done her hair, she would have. She made what order she could with fingers and comb, which wasn’t much, and stopped to breathe. No matter what she did, the Roman Emperor was going to know what kind of life she led. Her best tunic probably wouldn’t be good enough for a slave in his household.

So let him see, and let him ponder it if he could. She was an honest businesswoman, a solid if by no means wealthy citizen. She had just as much right as anyone else, to justice under the law.

She firmed her chin and squared her shoulders and marched back downstairs. A sneaking niggle of doubt evaporated: the Emperor’s messengers were still there, arms folded, feet tapping, all too obviously displeased by what they must regard as her insolence.

Too bad for them. “Let’s go,” she said briskly.

As they walked toward the town-council building, the aide who’d done the talking kept right on doing it. “The Emperor would have you know that he means no insult by supping with you seated rather than reclining. It is his own usual practice: one of his many austerities.”

Nicole raised an eyebrow. “Really? Thank you, then. I’m glad to know what to expect.”

She was, in fact, relieved. She’d never eaten while lying down, and she hadn’t the faintest idea how to do it without slopping dinner all over herself. Certainly nobody in her social circle did any such thing. It must be the height of high fashion.

Stolid legionaries stood guard outside the town hall. They might have been the same who’d stood there this morning, or they might not. There was no way to tell. In the manner of sentries even in her own time, they kept their eyes fixed straight again as Nicole passed through the gate. Her gaze flicked from one side to the other. Was one of them the man who had assaulted her? How would she ever know?

She’d never look at a Roman legionary in armor again without wondering, Is that it? Is he the one?

For that matter, how many of them had done to other women in Carnuntum what that one had done to her? Had any other victims come forward? Would women in this time actually do any such thing?

All this time, Nicole had lived in this world, and still she didn’t know the most basic things: how people thought, how they felt, how they reacted to trauma. She was in a country so foreign that she just barely began to understand a small part of it, and even of that she wasn’t completely certain.

Her reflections brought her down one passage and then another, till she found herself in a largeish room that faced west. The last of the sun, with the help of several lamps much larger and more ornate than her own, lit the chamber amazingly well, even without electricity. Even so, she couldn’t see much of what was in it against the glare: only that there was a man standing by one of the windows, a black outline against the sunset light.

One of her guides had pushed in ahead of her – officiously, she thought. “Sir,” he said, “here is the woman.”

“Of course,” said the shadow by the window. The aide backed out of the room, as smooth as if on wheels, and ushered Nicole in with a sharp flick of the hand.

She found her heart was beating hard and her palms were clammy. What in the world was she supposed to do or say in front of the Emperor of the Romans? What if she committed some hideous faux pas? What would he do then? Throw her out on her ear? Fling her into jail? Shout “Off with her head!”?