Household Gods (61 page)
Authors: Judith Tarr
As she made her slow, painful way back to the tavern, with every step sending a fresh twinge through the empty socket, she found some degree of distraction in the graffiti on the walls. There seemed to be a lot of them, and many of that lot seemed to be Christian. At first she thought her bleared eyes were playing tricks, but it was hard to mistake the two curved strokes of the fish, or a row of crosses with something biblical scrawled beneath. She found herself standing with her nose almost pressed to a wall full of such scribblings. The letters writhed and wriggled, but even so, they made a disturbing lot of sense. They were all about the Last Judgment, and they were downright ferocious. Their tone might have given even a Pentecostal preacher pause.
This wasn't her Christianity. Hers, insofar as she had anything to do with it, was a lukewarm thing: Christmas, Easter, and a few rote prayers muttered out of habit. The one Christian she'd met here gave her the creeps, and these graffiti were worse. They didn't make her think of Sunday quiet.
They made her think of terrorists. Just like some of the more extreme Arab sects, these Christians wanted the next world so badly, they didn't care what they did to this one.
They made her think of terrorists. Just like some of the more extreme Arab sects, these Christians wanted the next world so badly, they didn't care what they did to this one.
She stood by the wall, hand pressed to her jaw, and stared blankly at a drawing of a man on a cross, with blood gushing from his numerous wounds. Some wag had added an enormous, equally effusive phallus. It was blasphemy, part of her said; but in this world, in this context, she couldn't be as appalled as she should have been.
Particularly with reality staring her in the face. She hadn't been one bit better than the wild-eyed fanatics who scrawled this graffito. Like them, she'd paid too little attention to this world and the things of this world. Just as with everything else in the country and the century she was born in, she'd taken decent medical care for granted. Then Fabia Ursa died; then the pestilence came; and now, on a far smaller but much more immediate scale, this cursed tooth had shown her, in detail, just how far medical science still had to go. Terentianus was perfectly competent by local standards, she was sure. He'd done what needed doing, done it as well and as fast as he could, and caused her as little pain as possible. He couldn't help it that he knew nothing of antisepsis, next to nothing of analgesics, and nothing whatsoever of antibiotics.
Enough.
She had, at last, hit a wall. She'd been living from day to day, moment to moment, surviving, coping, evenâsometimesâmanaging to enjoy this world she'd wished herself into. She'd been remarkably passive, when she stopped to think about it. A few doubts, some midnight regrets, a lot of culture shock and plain old all-American squeamishnessâshe'd had all of that. But she hadn't ever really got up enough sheer force of feeling to wish herself away. It was all, however marginally, preferable to the life she'd left behindâeven if she didn't quite, ever, find the time or energy to change the things about the world she'd thought she'd change, back when she first arrived in Carnuntum. She could make herself think so, at any rate, if she tried hard enough.
It hadn't really been real to her. That was the trouble. Even
the deaths she'd seenâthose people had been dead for eighteen centuries before she was even born. She'd felt them as she might have felt deaths in a book, with grief, yes, and real pain, but at a slight remove.
the deaths she'd seenâthose people had been dead for eighteen centuries before she was even born. She'd felt them as she might have felt deaths in a book, with grief, yes, and real pain, but at a slight remove.
But one by one, blow by blow, they'd cracked through the shell that protected her. A good part of that was selfishness; she admitted it. Frank had said that of her before he walked out on herâone of his many pointed little gems of wisdom: “You don't really care about anybody else. You say you do, you recite all the words, put on all the expressions. But when it comes right down to it, there's nobody in your world but you.”
It was justice of a sort, then, that the last straw had been something that affected only her: an encounter with real, personal, private pain.
No matter where it came from, or how. She'd had enough. She'd learned her lesson. She was finished. With all her heart and soul, and with all her aching and abused flesh, she wished herself away. Back. Home to that other world, long and far removed from Carnuntum.
She squeezed her eyes tight and wished till her head pounded and her jaw screamed for mercy. Nothing.
Somewhere in delirium, while she was ill with the pestilence, she'd begged Liber and Libera to send her back to Los Angeles. She'd got a busy signal then, and then forgotten, till now. Till she knew beyond any doubt that she wanted out.
Well, she thought. When the line was busy, you hit the redial button, or put the phone on autodial, and kept on trying. And since this wasn't exactly a line, and what she wanted was as close to magic as made no matterâwhat made this kind of magic work? Magic ring, phantom tollbooth, ruby slippers â¦
The plaque.
She'd clean forgotten. The plaque she'd bought on her honeymoon and kept by her bed in West Hills. She'd focused on it, hadn't she? She'd prayed to the gods whom she'd never have known if they hadn't been depicted on that one piece of faux antiquity.
She'd clean forgotten. The plaque she'd bought on her honeymoon and kept by her bed in West Hills. She'd focused on it, hadn't she? She'd prayed to the gods whom she'd never have known if they hadn't been depicted on that one piece of faux antiquity.
Or was it false? What if it was real? It seemed preposterous, but what if, somehow, the maker of the reproductions had made a mistake, and shipped the original with the copies? What if she'd been sold, not a reproduction, but an actual late-Roman votive plaque? What if that was the key?
In the fever of discovery, she almost forgot how much pain she was in. She pushed herself away from the wall she'd been leaning against all this time, and looked around with eyes that saw almost clearly. Somewhere along here, she seemed to remember, was a stonecutter's shop.
Yes, there it was, right in the next blockâas if it had been placed there specifically for her need. Samples of the stonecutter's work were laid out along the front of the shop, propped against the wall. Some were headstones; he'd probably done a land-office business in those while the pestilence raged in Carnuntum. The sample stones were distinguished by gender: a soldier, a woman in a tunic. There were even partial inscriptions, stock phrases awaiting the insertion of a name.
And yes, he had a selection of votive plaques, dedicated to a wide variety of gods and goddesses. None of those on display was inscribed to Liber and Libera.
She quelled the sinking in her stomach. Maybe he had one inside. If not, he could make one. She didn't have to drift passively through this life. She could take matters into her own hands: manufacture, or have manufactured, her own way home. If she couldn't change this world, she might still escape it.
She went boldly into the dim space with its odors of stone dust and old sweat, and asked her question in a voice that wasn't too mushy, she didn't think. He'd been picking away at a bit of garland on a tombstone, but when she spoke he looked up a little sharply; saw what had to be a heroically swollen face; and blinked once before resorting to a bland expression. “What, Riper andâoh; Liber. Yes, Liber and Libera. There's one right hereâtwo, actually, now I stop to think. People are right fond of Liber and Libera, likely 'cause they're right fond of what they're god and goddess of.” He
winked at her as if he expected her to share the joke, and pulled a pair of plaques from among the many on the wall behind him. “Here you are. Take your pick.”
winked at her as if he expected her to share the joke, and pulled a pair of plaques from among the many on the wall behind him. “Here you are. Take your pick.”
Neither one was
the
plaque, the one she'd bought on her honeymoon. One was larger, one was smaller, both were rather cruder work. She eyed them in disappointment. Didn't magic need a solid link between her now and her then? Preferably the
same
link?
the
plaque, the one she'd bought on her honeymoon. One was larger, one was smaller, both were rather cruder work. She eyed them in disappointment. Didn't magic need a solid link between her now and her then? Preferably the
same
link?
Still, she thought with robust twentieth-century skepticism, would it be necessary? If she was making her own future, then all that mattered should be that the plaque was like the one she'd used to bring herself here.
Or she could have one made. But, from the look of the shop, he was backed up for weeks; and she couldn't wait. She wanted out
now.
“I like the smaller one better,” she said firmly. “What do you want for it?”
now.
“I like the smaller one better,” she said firmly. “What do you want for it?”
“That one?” The stonecutter considered. “Ten
sesterces
ought to do it.”
sesterces
ought to do it.”
Distracted by pain and fogged by wine and poppy juice as she was, Nicole remained astonished. The limestone from which he'd carved the plaque was surely cheap, but he couldn't set much value on his own laborâeither that, or he'd turned out the piece much faster than she would have thought possible. On the other hand, he wasn't inclined to haggle, and she'd been too badly battered to bargain as hard as she would have otherwise. She paid him eight
sesterces
and a couple of
asses
in lieu of a
dupondius,
got him to throw in a piece of sacking to wrap her purchase in, and carried it home with as much care as if it had been made of glass.
sesterces
and a couple of
asses
in lieu of a
dupondius,
got him to throw in a piece of sacking to wrap her purchase in, and carried it home with as much care as if it had been made of glass.
Julia greeted her with a cry of dismay. “Mistress! You've got blood all over your tunic.”
Nicole looked down at herself. She hadn't even noticed. No wonder the stonecutter had looked at her so oddly. He must have thought her husband had belted her a good oneâand she was buying off the gods of wine to soften him up the next time he polished off a jar or two or three.
At least she knew a cure for blood on wool. “Cold water,” she said, “that's what it needs. And wine.”
“Wine?” Julia frowned. “Wine doesn't do a thing for bloodstains.”
“The wine is for me,” Nicole said. She sat at a table near the barânearly falling the last inch or two onto the benchâand uncovered the plaque so that Julia could see it. “I'll give Liber and Libera a little, too.”
Julia seemed excited all out of proportion to the occasion. It must have been a slow day for Julia, upstairs as well as down. “Let me see!” she said eagerly. She didn't wait for Nicole to finish making her way through the stools and benches and tables. She negotiated the course with more agility than Nicole could have managed just then, and peered at the low relief. “That's good,” she said. “That's very good. We could use a god or two to watch over us.”
If they watch over me as well as I'd like
, Nicole thought,
I won't be here.
, Nicole thought,
I won't be here.
The thought was both delicious andâto her amazementâsad. Julia had been to the baths today, and found a clean tunic somewhere, too. She smelled as good as anyone in Carnuntum could. She was warm, standing next to Nicole, and solid, and somehow comforting. Julia, however unwitting, had been absolutely invaluable in showing Nicole how to cope with this world she'd found herself in. They weren't friends, not exactly; friends were equals. Employer and employee? Somewhat more than that. Allies. Comrades in arms.
Nicole was going to miss Julia. The thought was so astonishing that she almost forgot to keep it to herself. The thudding ache in her jaw saved her. She must have clenched her teeth; she was struck with a sudden, piercing stab of pain. “Wine,” she said again, tightly. Julia gasped a little, as if she'd clean forgotten, and ran to fetch a cup.
Terentianus had told Nicole to rinse her mouth with it. He hadn't told her it would feel as if she'd drunk gasoline and then thrown in a lighted match. She whimpered. Her eyes filled with tears of pain. Nevertheless, she gulped the stuff
down. The second swallow wasn't quite so bad. The damage was done; pain had gone into overload.
down. The second swallow wasn't quite so bad. The damage was done; pain had gone into overload.
When the cup was almost empty, Nicole wet her forefinger with the dregs and smeared a little on Liber's mouth, and a little on Libera's.
Julia shook her head and smiled. “I never saw anybody give them a drink quite that way, Mistress. But I'll bet they like it.”
“I hope they do,” Nicole said. She hadn't been thinking before she did it, she'd just done what seemed appropriate. She was lucky. If she'd crossed herself backward, everyone in church would have known she was no Catholic. Here, what she'd done wasn't wrong, just different. The cult of Liber and Libera, it seemed, didn't have as many rules as the Christianity in which she'd grown up.
The Christianity they had hereâdid it have rules, aside from terrorist graffiti and apocalyptic mania? She wasn't sure she wanted to know. And if she did happen to learn the answer, she had every intention of doing it from the twentieth century.
She drank a lot of wine that day. With each cup, she gave the stone god and goddess their share. If the wound got infected after all that, then the germs that did the job would be cutting through the alcohol bath in wetsuit and swim fins.
She drank a double cup, one of the cups she kept for her thirstiest customers, before she went upstairs to bed. Maybe, just maybe, it would dull the pain enough to let her sleep. She was in a fog as it was, drifting as if underwater, bouncing gently off walls and furniture. But the heart of the fog was a red and throbbing pain.
Sleep was as elusive as she'd feared. She couldn't even toss and turn: it hurt too much. She lay as still as she could on the thin, lumpy mattress, and did her best to ignore the tiny stabs and stings of the vermin that inhabited it. She'd brought the plaque up with her, and propped it on the chest of drawers where she could see it from the bed.
Liber and Libera,
she prayed,
take me back to my own time. Take me back to my own world. I don't belong here. I was wrong to
pray as I prayed. Please, make it right. You granted one prayer of mine. Only grant this one, and I'll never trouble you again.
Liber and Libera,
she prayed,
take me back to my own time. Take me back to my own world. I don't belong here. I was wrong to
pray as I prayed. Please, make it right. You granted one prayer of mine. Only grant this one, and I'll never trouble you again.
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