Household Gods

Lucius shrank suddenly, startling her: flinched into himself, as if he’d expected a slap. “No, Mother,” he said. “I’ll drink water after this, Mother. I promise I will.”

God, what had he expected? That she’d clobber him, just because he’d been obnoxious? What kind of mother had this Umma been? Not just alcoholism – abuse. Her stomach, even as full of breakfast as it was, felt small and tight and cold.

It knotted even tighter when Aurelia hastened to agree with her brother. “I’ll drink water, too,” she said. “I’ll drink it right now. Julia, get me some water!”

Julia glanced at Nicole. Nicole nodded sharply. Julia sighed just audibly, poured Aurelia’s wine into her own cup, and filled Aurelia’s again with water.

Nicole’s triumph, such as it was, was evaporating fast. Julia had just manipulated herself into a double ration of wine. Umma’s children were flat-out terrified, and their fear had given Nicole the victory. What kind of mother raised her children to be afraid of her? Not any kind of mother I am, Nicole resolved grimly. And Julia – tricky bits aside, Julia obeyed her mistress, oh, sure. But she did it with slow sullenness, neither too slow nor too sullen to be caught and punished, but just enough to make her feelings clear.

Just what did Julia think wine was? Or was it water she was afraid of? Nicole knew about not drinking the water in Third-World countries, but that was for Americans traveling away from their chlorinated, fluoridated, homogenized, pasteurized, all-clean-and-sanitized local water companies. People who actually lived in those countries did perfectly well on the water there. Wasn’t she – in Umma’s body – still standing up and not crouched groaning over a chamberpot?

So much ignorance. So much misunderstanding of what was best for people’s health. Maybe Liber and Libera had sent her back to make life better for these people, to teach them about sanitation and hygiene and healthy food and drink. Surely they hadn’t given her her wish just because she wanted it. There had to be something they meant her to do in return.

If she was to do any good, if that was what she was here for – and never mind if she wasn’t; she’d do it anyhow – she had to learn much more of this world and place than she knew. Knowing Latin, for instance, didn’t seem to let her know where anything was in Carnuntum.

Still, how hard could that be? Social mores and mental attitudes were rough, and she was working her way gingerly through those. Carnuntum itself was much simpler. If she’d found her way around Los Angeles, all hundreds of square miles of it, and even learned to drive its freeways without going catatonic with terror – she could learn what she needed to know about this much smaller, much less complicated town.

She didn’t know the date, either. Well, she could ask that, and she did, casually, as if it had slipped her mind.

“It’s four days before the Kalends of June, Mistress,” Julia said, and then added, “I think.” At least she wasn’t surprised to be asked.

May 28, Nicole thought after a moment of going back and forth between what she knew in Latin and what she knew in English. It was only half an answer, and the smaller half. “Everything’s going out of my head this morning,” she said with what she hoped was a light little laugh. “What year is it?”

“It’s – what? – the ninth year of the reign of Marcus Aurelius,” Julia said. Her voice held a little of the tone Nicole knew well: The boss is an idiot. it meant. But only a little. It was, oddly, maybe deceptively reassuring. Maybe Umma wasn’t a brutal slavemaster after all.

Or maybe it meant a slave didn’t dare step too far over the line. Nicole had seen that in offices with tyrannical bosses, or in houses where the parents were too strict. Employees, and kids, learned just how far they could go, and went that far and no further.

Lucius broke in on her thoughts with the air of the know-it-all proving he really did know it all: “The consuls for the year are Marcus Cornelius Cethegus and Gaius Erucius Clarus.”

Nice, Nicole thought. And no help at all. She might have heard of Marcus Aurelius once upon a time, but no way in the world did she know when he’d reigned. The other two names had a fine and ringing sound, but they meant exactly nothing. And what difference did it make, anyway, who or what a consul was? Were they like President and Vice President? King and queen? Lord Mayor of London?

Careful; she was getting sarcastic. She tried one more time, and hoped the strain didn’t show in her voice: “I wonder what year this would be by the Christian calendar?”