Household Gods (73 page)

Read Household Gods Online

Authors: Judith Tarr

BOOK: Household Gods
12.49Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Without further pause for thought, Nicole ran out of the tavern. She barely remembered to shut the door behind her.
The street was even fuller of Germans than before. Some were headed at a gallop for the wall, swords drawn, faces set in masks of ferocity. Some were falling back, retreating deeper into the city. Their swords were notched or bloodied or broken, and their masks had cracked. Beneath lay fear—the first fear she'd seen in anyone but a Roman since this war began.
Serves you right,
she thought viciously. Some of the Marcomanni and Quadi coming away from the wall were bleeding. That served them right, too. It was time they had a taste of their own medicine.
The barbarians yelled back and forth, comers to goers, incomprehensibly. None took the slightest notice of Nicole, any more than they had of Julia. Who was probably, right at that moment, screwing her brains out. Nicole didn't know whether to be jealous or annoyed. Annoyed, she decided: if Julia had waited a little longer before running over and hopping into bed with Gaius Calidius Severus, maybe Lucius wouldn't have had the chance to sneak out the door.
“Lucius!” Nicole called again, but her voice was lost in the chaos. Maybe he really couldn't hear her. And maybe, too, if she stayed out here on the sidewalk any longer, one of those Germans running past was going to take a swipe at her with his sword, just for the hell of it.
She ducked into the alley between her house and the house where Sextus Longinius Iulus lived and Fabia Ursa had died. As soon as she did it, she wished she hadn't; the stink of dumped chamber pots was appalling. Flies rose in buzzing
clouds, furious to be disturbed in their feasting. She flailed her arms. Maybe one or two failed to land on her.
Just as she turned to try another route, a German loomed in the mouth of the alleyway. Nicole stopped cold.
The German looked at her in—surprise? With a sound like an ox lowing, he collapsed. Blood poured into the filthy dirt from a wound on the inside of his thigh. So much blood—how had he run all the way from the wall?
The flies didn't care what he'd done or how. They swarmed toward the spreading pool, milling around its edges, sampling it to see if they liked it as well as yesterday's slops. It would do, their manner said. It would definitely do.
Nicole couldn't bring herself to step over the dying German. She turned and went farther up the alley, picking her way past the piles of filth. At the back of her house, the alleyway jogged to the left instead of cutting straight through to the next street. The houses and shops facing that one weren't directly in back of hers and its neighbors, as they would have been in a Los Angeles subdivision. Nobody here had bothered to think that might be desirable.
Nicole couldn't see what was going on in the next street, but she could hear it loud and clear. People were screaming in several languages, and clashing iron against iron. Lucius would reckon it a great show, the bloody-minded little rascal. God, if he got embroiled in that …
Footsteps pounded toward her from the other street, heavy steps, much too heavy for a child's. Armor clanked. A shout rang out in Latin: “The Emperor!”
She sagged against the indifferently whitewashed stone of the wall—her own wall, the back wall of her house. Not a German bent on rapine and plunder. A Roman legionary, a soldier of civilization—such as it was—one of Carnuntum's rescuers from its barbarous conquerors.
“The Emperor!” he shouted again, just as he rounded the corner. He and Nicole saw each other at the same instant. Had he been carrying a gun, she might have died. By the gasp that escaped him when he spied her, his first thought when he saw anyone not a legionary was
enemy.
But instead
of the twentieth-century soldier's rifle, he had a sword in his right hand and a great, clumsy-looking shield on his left arm. He was still two or three strides away from her when he realized she wasn't dangerous.
He skidded to a stop, heavy sandals scuffing up dust. His sword lowered. Nicole dared, at last, to breathe. She let it out as a word: “The Emperor!” And, as he stood still, staring at her, “Thank God you're finally here!”
A moment too late, she realized that it should have been,
Thank the gods you're here!
But the Roman soldier did not seem inclined toward literary criticism. He grinned. Between his black beard, the iron cheekpieces of his helmet, and the low rim that projected almost like a cap's visor, she couldn't see much of his face: that grin, a nose that looked like a nose, and dark eyes that stayed alert, wary, even while he grinned at her.
Then she did what she'd promised herself she would do with the first legionary she saw inside Carnuntum: she marched up to him and gave him a kiss. She'd had in mind a kiss on the cheek, but the soldier's beard and the cheekpieces made that impractical. She kissed him on the end of the nose instead.
He laughed out loud. “Hello to you, too, sweetheart,” he said. “You can do better than that, I'll wager.” He let the shield slip to the ground, wrapped his arms around her—sword still clenched in his right fist—and bent his mouth down to hers.
That kiss, crushed against scale mail and with a sword bumping her backside, was odds-on the most uncomfortable she'd ever had. She didn't care. It was—damn, it was fun. Just like the basketball game years ago before she ever met Frank, when Indiana clawed from behind to beat Notre Dame with a shot at the buzzer. She'd let out a squeal and kissed not only her date but the guy who sat on the other side of her. They'd all laughed. It had been that kind of moment: dizzy, crazy, and oh so sweet with victory.
The legionary's left hand closed, painfully hard, on her breast. She wasn't really alarmed, not yet. She stiffened and
tried to pull her head away, with a protest all ready to burst out as soon as her mouth was free. But he followed her, prolonging the kiss, driving his tongue deep into her mouth, grinding against her teeth.
She bit down hard. He yelped and recoiled. She slapped his hand away. “That's enough!” she said sharply.
He laughed again, not pleasantly at all. There was blood on his lips. He licked it away, wincing: his tongue must have hurt like hell. His words were thicker than they'd been before, and his tone had a nasty edge. “Now, now. That's not nice. Not nice at all.”
“Look,” Nicole said, doing her best to ignore the stab of fear. “I didn't mean to tease you. But just because I was glad—I
am
glad—to see my city back in Roman hands, doesn't mean—”
She should have listened to her fear. She should have shut up, twisted loose, and run like hell. All that, she realized afterwards, when it was much too late.
The legionary listened to her just long enough to realize she wasn't going to give him what he wanted. She was still explaining, in logical, lawyerlike, twentieth-century fashion, how a kiss didn't necessarily imply anything more, when he shut her up for good and all: he kicked her feet out from under her and threw her to the ground.
She landed exactly as he wanted her to land. Afterwards—that word again—she decided that throwing people to the ground would be an important skill for a soldier to acquire in an age when fighting was face to face, up close and personal. In the middle of it, she had time for one startled squawk before he flung himself down on top of her.
By chance or by design—she strongly suspected the latter but could not have proved it in a court of law—one of his elbows caught her in the pit of her stomach. For the next minute or so, she had not a chance in the world of using the self-defense techniques she'd learned in another life. By the time she could think about anything but the agonizing struggle for air, he'd poised himself between her legs, yanked down her drawers, and driven deep into her.
It hurt. She hadn't wanted him, and she was dry. He didn't care. He didn't care in the slightest. That was the worst part, worse even than the pain—and yes, it hurt like hell. In and out, up and down, his weight on her, the scales of his cuirass digging into her belly and breasts, crushing her, making it even harder for her to breathe.
When at last she did manage to suck in a quarter of a breath, she thrashed and writhed, arching her back, twisting and struggling, anything to get him off her. He grunted. It was, to her horror, a grunt of pleasure. “That's more like it, sweetheart,” he said. “Don't just lie there—do something.”
She did something, all right. She hit him. Every part of him she could reach was covered in iron. Her fists throbbed with the pain of it, and he never even felt it. He pounded away on top of her, not caring that she didn't want him on her or in her, not caring that he hurt her. Not caring at all.
There above her was the nose she'd kissed only a couple of moments before. She snapped at it. He jerked his head back—he'd stayed alert, damn him. Something caressed the side of her neck: the edge of his sword. It felt cold and very sharp.
“You don't want to do that, sweetheart,” he said between thrusts: a word, a thrust; another word or two; another thrust. “It's not friendly, you know what I mean?”
She knew. She hated him; she hated herself, for knowing it—and worse, for giving way to it. She lay still. It was small comfort that he wanted her active; that if she lay like one of the fish she'd thrown out the window this morning, he'd get less pleasure out of her. He didn't stop or even slow down. Another dozen breaths, and he grunted again, shuddered, rammed home. She felt the hot gush deep inside her, in her most secret place.
He lay on top of her for a stretching moment, stiff as the armor he was cased in. Then, as suddenly as he'd forced himself into her, he jerked out—one last, small stab of pain, like insult on top of injury—and got smoothly to his feet. He was an athlete, of course he was, with an athlete's grace and an athlete's arrogant strength.
He straightened his pleated military kilt—no inconvenience of underwear in that uniform—and looked down at Nicole. His face was as impenetrable as ever: black beard, iron cheekpieces, gleam of eyes under the visor. “So long, sweetheart,” he said. “That was fun.” And then, as if she'd never interrupted him, he ran on up the alley, lifting again his ringing shout: “The Emperor!”
She lay where he'd left her till he was long out of sight. She would have lain there till Rome fell, but the flies were buzzing, tickling her lips and her eyelids. She slapped at them, hard enough to sting, and lurched to her feet. Every part of her hurt: the back of her head, her haunches, her solar plexus, her chest and belly where his armor had crushed and pinched. And worst of all, she hurt where he'd violated her, a throbbing, burning ache, as if he'd scraped the skin raw. She stood as she'd stood the night she lost her virginity, as if she'd been riding a horse all day and half the night. But that had been an almost welcome pain, a pain she'd bargained for and wore like a badge of pride. There was no pride in this. And the pain—that had been an ache or two, some chafing, and a tendency to walk spraddle-legged. This was
pain
.
“He raped me,” she said. She said it in English. Latin wasn't enough, not for this. “The bastard just—went ahead—and raped me.” As if to mock her with incontrovertible proof, semen dribbled down the inside of her thigh, wet and sticky-slimy. Her drawers were tangled around one ankle. She yanked them up. She tried to think. Her thoughts kept scattering. Her memories kept fragmenting, coalescing in a single spot—the end of his nose, the grind of his pelvis against hers—then shattering again. And again. Think. She had to think.
All around her, battle was raging. She heard the sounds of it both nearby and farther away, like an iron foundry in a lower level of hell. Another stalwart defender of civilization was going to come charging down the alley, she could bet on it. Would he care that he was getting somebody else's sloppy seconds? Would he even take time to notice?
Walking was hard. She wasn't built bowlegged. But walking normally rubbed tissues outraged beyond endurance. She was probably bleeding. She didn't stop to investigate.
She made her way up the alley, back past the stinking piles of ordure, to the German who'd fallen in front of her. He was dead now, though his blood still soaked into the dirt. In the street beyond him, live Marcomanni and Quadi still fought the Romans.
Nicole shrank back against the wall. Romans, barbarians—God forbid anyone see her. Was one of them the son of a bitch who'd violated her? She couldn't tell. They were all crowded together in a knot. They all wore the same clothes, carried the same gear.
Uniform
—that was what it was, uniform dress, uniform looks and fighting style. Wasn't that the point? Look alike, fight alike, kill alike. Rape alike, too. And never mind if the victim was friend or enemy.
The Romans drove the Germans back, away from the city wall and toward the center of town. Nicole waited till they were some distance down the street, too far to grab her if she moved fast enough. She scuttled around the corner and dived through the door of the tavern.
“Hello, Mother!” a voice called, startling her near out of her skin. It was, of course, Lucius, safe, sound, and smiling, watching the fighting through the window as if it had been a TV screen. He'd probably been doing it, the little wretch, since about thirty seconds after Nicole went outside to look for him. If he'd come in half a minute earlier …

Other books

La saga de Cugel by Jack Vance
Not Your Fault by Cheyanne Young
The Lodestone by Keel, Charlene
Two Sides of Terri by Ben Boswell
Beginnings by Kim Vogel Sawyer