Household Gods

As Julia went to get a knife for the mutton, she said over her shoulder, “Oh – Mistress, I almost forgot. Your brother stopped by while you were gone to market. He said he’d come back another time.”

“Did he?” The words were entirely automatic – they didn’t have anything to do with any rational thought processes on Nicole’s part. Up till this moment, she hadn’t known she, or rather Umma, had a brother. Up till this moment, she’d never had a brother. Two sisters, yes; a brother, no. She supposed she had to make the best of it. “If that’s what he said,” she said, she hoped not too lamely, “that’s what he’ll probably do.”

Julia nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes. Brigomarus is always very reliable.” Now Nicole not only had a brother, she knew what his name was. That helped. If only she’d be able to recognize him when he walked through the door…

Julia skinned the leg of mutton with nonchalant competence. Nicole was sure she couldn’t have done it half so neatly. She’d never had to try anything like that before – but she was going to have to learn. Another survival skill in this world without supermarkets, like pissing in a chamberpot and haggling in the market. Next time, she decided, I do it myself.

While Julia worked, Nicole checked the cash box, doing her best not to be too obvious about it. Julia saw her doing it even so. The slave went right on with her task. Even as an ordinary employee, she wouldn’t really have had any grounds for complaint. As a slave, she doubtless could land in very hot water if she got out of line.

Nicole didn’t like the small stab of relief – almost of approval – that accompanied the thought. It was the same less than laudable gut reaction and the same tardy pang of guilt that she’d felt when she saw a police car patrolling a Latino neighborhood while she was driving through it. She didn’t want to be glad the cops came down harder on poor minorities than on affluent whites – but just at that moment, she couldn’t help it. She was glad.

Lucius came running down the stairs, pulling a toy cart on the end of a leather thong. It squeaked almost as much as a real one. By the way he squealed laughter, he wasn’t at death’s door or anywhere close. All the same, Nicole asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, Mother, thanks,” the boy answered, as carelessly as if he hadn’t had the galloping trots in the middle of the night. Kids, Nicole thought, half in amazement, half in envy. Lucius was kind enough to add, “Aurelia’s fine, too.”

“That’s good,” Nicole said. Even so, she snagged him as he loped on by, and felt his forehead. Normal. He was grubby, too, but there wasn’t much she could do about that on short notice. “If you are feeling fine,” she said, “I have a job for you. Would you help me put the groceries away? Here, I got some raisins, and some scallions. Put them where they belong, will you please?”

As clever stratagems went – Nicole had no idea where either item belonged – it was about as successful as she might have expected. “Oh, Mother,” Lucius said with the indignation of a child in any country, in any time, faced with the adult insistence on doing something useful instead of running around making a nuisance of himself. Nicole armed herself for battle, but he amazed her: once he’d registered his complaint, he did as he was told. Maybe he was afraid he’d get whacked if he didn’t. Maybe he was just a good kid.

By what Nicole had seen here, anybody in Carnuntum would have loudly maintained that those last two notions had something in common. She didn’t care what anybody in Carnuntum would maintain. She didn’t believe it, not for a minute.

Lucius scratched his head. The gesture was as contagious as a yawn. Nicole gave in to the irresistible urge to scratch. Her scalp – no, Umma’s scalp: it wasn’t her fault – never stopped itching, any more than her tooth stopped aching or her heart stopped beating.

Lucius stopped suddenly and let out a very grown-up grunt of satisfaction. He reached up and squished something between the fingernail of one hand and the thumbnail of the other. Nicole’s stomach did a slow lurch that had nothing to do with the water she’d drunk the day before. “Lucius!” she said sharply. “What was that?”

He grinned. “Louse,” he said, wiping his hands on his tunic. He sounded insufferably pleased with himself. “I’ve been trying to catch the miserable thing all day. And look, I finally did.”

“Oh…” Nicole bit her tongue before she burst out in a flood of English swearwords. Latin still felt strange to her, like a made-up language; something she’d learned in school and recited by rote. She couldn’t cut loose in it. If she started screaming in English, people would think she’d gone round the bend. Did they burn witches here? No English, then. Latin wasn’t enough. She clamped down hard on the most satisfying option of all: a plain old wordless shriek.