Household Gods (13 page)
Authors: Judith Tarr
There was nothing Nicole could do, not right this instant, except give Julia what little she had to give, which was her permission. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, that's all right.”
Julia smiled in pure happiness. Considering how rank she was, it had to be excruciating to have to be herself, and smell
herself. Nicole wasn't quite willing to admit that she was surprised. She'd let herself think nobody minded smelling badâbut if that was the case, why did the Romans have baths at all? Lord knew the ruins she'd seen here on her honeymoon were the biggest building in town.
herself. Nicole wasn't quite willing to admit that she was surprised. She'd let herself think nobody minded smelling badâbut if that was the case, why did the Romans have baths at all? Lord knew the ruins she'd seen here on her honeymoon were the biggest building in town.
Now she was here, in the time when Roman baths were whole and in use, and she'd passed a milestone. She'd survived her first customer. That was worth a pause, and a gathering of forces. If one had come in for his breakfast, another couldn't be far behind.
Â
Another customer did come, a few minutes after the first; and two more after that, and then a whole flood of them. Most were men, all hungry or thirsty or bothâhungrier in the morning, thirsty as the day went on, hungry again toward evening. Without a clock, Nicole couldn't know how many hours were passing. She was too busy most of the time to care.
What with one thing and another, talking fast and ducking faster and calling on Julia to do the honors whenever she was caught up short, she survived the rest of the day. By the time the sun went down, she was wondering if she would go down, too: down for the count. In spite of Julia's promise that things would slow down in the afternoon, Nicole was hopping every moment of the day.
The first crisis came early, when someone bought two cups of wine, some bread, and a piece of smoked pork. Nicole hadn't even noticed that the tavern boasted smoked pork; Julia used a forked pole to get it down from a hook in the ceiling. The hook was secured in a beam next to a hole through which smoke from the cookfiresâor some of it, at leastâescaped. As the smoke dribbled out the hole, it happened to preserve the meat. Nicole watched the middle-aged man happily devour the porkâham, she supposed she should call itâand tried not to think about the carcinogens he must be ingesting with it.
“That'll be a
sestertius
altogether,” Julia said. She'd been giving out all the prices this morning, readily enough but
with a glance at Nicole each time as if she expected Nicole to do it instead.
sestertius
altogether,” Julia said. She'd been giving out all the prices this morning, readily enough but
with a glance at Nicole each time as if she expected Nicole to do it instead.
After he'd fished in his belt pouch for what seemed like a very long time, the man confessed that he didn't have enough small copper and brass coins to make up the value of a largeâsilver-dollar-sizedâbrass
sestertius.
His expression was sour. “I'm going to have to give you a
denarius,
curse it. Jupiter! I hate paying out silver for trifles, when I know cursed well I'll get back nothing but base metal. Say whatever you like, but you know as well as I do, three bloody brass
sesterces
don't come near being worth three-quarters of a silver
denarius
.”
sestertius.
His expression was sour. “I'm going to have to give you a
denarius,
curse it. Jupiter! I hate paying out silver for trifles, when I know cursed well I'll get back nothing but base metal. Say whatever you like, but you know as well as I do, three bloody brass
sesterces
don't come near being worth three-quarters of a silver
denarius
.”
Four
sesterces
to a
denarius.
Nicole filed that away. And two
asses
made a
dupondius,
and two
dupondii
a
sestertius.
sesterces
to a
denarius.
Nicole filed that away. And two
asses
made a
dupondius,
and two
dupondii
a
sestertius.
What was even worse, considering how unhappy her customer already was, she was still an
as
short of being able to give him the right change. He'd already complained about shelling out silverâreal moneyâfor fiat-currency pocket change. He'd be even less delighted to come up short of what he was supposed to be owed. It wasn't just that he was getting toy money for his fifty-dollar billâthat toy money didn't even equal the amount of his change.
as
short of being able to give him the right change. He'd already complained about shelling out silverâreal moneyâfor fiat-currency pocket change. He'd be even less delighted to come up short of what he was supposed to be owed. It wasn't just that he was getting toy money for his fifty-dollar billâthat toy money didn't even equal the amount of his change.
Julia saw the same thing at the same time. She looked around, seemed not to find what she was looking for, and turned back to Nicole. “Mistress, didn't you bring the cash box downstairs with you this morning?”
Nicole's stomach clenched, as it had been doing at intervals since she woke in a strange bed. If it did much more of that, she'd end up with an ulcer. She shook her head in reply to Julia's question.
Julia made a noise that hadn't changed between whenever this was and the 1990s: a small sigh that meant,
I may be stuck working for you, but which one of us is the dummy?
I may be stuck working for you, but which one of us is the dummy?
Nicole sighed herself and prayed for calmânever mind whom she prayed to; it didn't matter. “Go and get the box,” she said. And added, probably not wisely: “Please.”
For the first time Julia didn't go running to do her mistress' bidding. “Oh, no, Mistress,” she said. “You can't trick
me that way. I don't spy on you, no I don't.” She folded her arms and set her lips thin and made herself a picture of triumphant virtue. It was so exaggerated, so downright stagey, that Nicole almost laughed and told her come off itâbut she didn't dare. This was worse than dealing with the secretarial pool, and much worse than knowing what to do with all the flocking servers in an upscale restaurant. She didn't own the secretaries, and she certainly didn't have the power to torture or kill the maître d' at Spago.
me that way. I don't spy on you, no I don't.” She folded her arms and set her lips thin and made herself a picture of triumphant virtue. It was so exaggerated, so downright stagey, that Nicole almost laughed and told her come off itâbut she didn't dare. This was worse than dealing with the secretarial pool, and much worse than knowing what to do with all the flocking servers in an upscale restaurant. She didn't own the secretaries, and she certainly didn't have the power to torture or kill the maître d' at Spago.
“Well,” she said to cover the pause, which was stretching a little too long. “I certainly am glad that I can trust you.” If she could. But she wasn't going to think about that. She nodded to the customer, who was starting to twitch with impatience, and almost fled up the stairs. If a slave had to get permission from her owner to receive even an
as
of her own, it made a horrid kind of sense that she wouldn't be allowed to know where the cash was stashed. Unfortunately, neither did Nicole.
as
of her own, it made a horrid kind of sense that she wouldn't be allowed to know where the cash was stashed. Unfortunately, neither did Nicole.
It seemed logical that the money should be somewhere in the room where she'd awakened. But when she stood in the doorway, the little bare box of a place didn't look as if it offered a hiding place for one
sestertius,
let alone a box full of them. She dropped to one knee to peer under the bed. Only the chamber pot there, as she'd seen earlier in the morning. Fear rose to choke her. If the box was lurking behind a loose board or in some kind of hidden compartment, she'd never find itâand her customer was waiting. Everyone was waiting for Nicole to give herself away, to prove she wasn't Umma.
sestertius,
let alone a box full of them. She dropped to one knee to peer under the bed. Only the chamber pot there, as she'd seen earlier in the morning. Fear rose to choke her. If the box was lurking behind a loose board or in some kind of hidden compartment, she'd never find itâand her customer was waiting. Everyone was waiting for Nicole to give herself away, to prove she wasn't Umma.
She rummaged hastily through the drawers of the chest. The only box there was the one she'd found earlier, with its pots and jars of makeup. More out of desperation than anything else, she pulled the chest away from the wallâand nearly fell down in relief. There where it must have rested between chest and wall sat a wooden box. She picked it up, and grunted a little with surprise. It was heavyâand it rattled, a lovely, faintly sweet sound, the soundâshe hopedâof coins sliding against one another.
The dizziness of relief went briefly dark. She'd crowed too soon. This had to be the cash box, and that was wonderfulâbut the box was locked.
The lock, broader and deeper than a regular padlock, was of shiny brass like a
sestertius.
So were the hasps holding it to the cash box. Those hasps looked stout. Nicole tugged hard at the lock. No give at all. No way she'd pull that lock off, or break it either, not without tools. She had to find the key.
sestertius.
So were the hasps holding it to the cash box. Those hasps looked stout. Nicole tugged hard at the lock. No give at all. No way she'd pull that lock off, or break it either, not without tools. She had to find the key.
And if she wanted to keep people downstairs from suspecting that she wasn't Umma, she'd have to find the key pretty damn quick. “Where the hell did she put it?” she muttered in English. The words felt strange on her tongue after so many hours of speaking Latin.
She knew what was in the drawer with the makeup case. She'd emptied that one out most thoroughly. She shuffled through the others one at a time, with rapidly receding hope. Last of all and reluctantly, with the same sensation she'd had when she had to change a loaded diaper, she opened the drawer filled with stained rags. She tossed them on the floor, trying to touch them as little as possible. Close to the bottom, tangled in a knot of ill-washed scraps, something caught at her fingers. She pulled at the rags. The thing inside them slipped free. She'd been afraid it would be a brooch or a buckle or a bit of useless jewelry, but her luck had finally turned. A brass key gleamed in the shadow of the drawer. It was an odd-looking thing, the teeth cut perpendicular to the shaft instead of along its edge as on the keys she knew.
When she thrust the key into the lock, it refused to turn. “Oh, come on!” she snapped at it. She twisted and jiggled. Nothing. Her fingers clenched till they began to ache.
She hissed at them and at the intractable lockâ
God, don't tell me that's not the key, it's got to be the key.
Just as she was about to scream in frustration, the lock clicked and, grudgingly, ground open.
God, don't tell me that's not the key, it's got to be the key.
Just as she was about to scream in frustration, the lock clicked and, grudgingly, ground open.
She held her breath as she opened the box. If it proved to be full of buttons or bangles or something equally worthless, she really was going to scream.
Her breath rushed out in a groan of relief. The box was filled nearly full: copper, bronze, even a little silver, coins of all sizes and states of wear, from dim and almost illegible
asses
to silver
denarii
like the one she had to make change for, and quickly too. It would be just her luck if the customer had cursed her and her fool of a slave, taken his change and his
denarius
too, and left in a snit.
asses
to silver
denarii
like the one she had to make change for, and quickly too. It would be just her luck if the customer had cursed her and her fool of a slave, taken his change and his
denarius
too, and left in a snit.
She hurled the rags all anyhow back into the drawer, slammed it shut, shoved the chest against the wall, and fairly fell downstairs. The man was still there, for a miracle. He'd fallen into conversation with another of the customers, she hoped not about how strangely Umma was acting today; he broke it off in his own good time, and took the three
sesterces
that she handed him, scowling at their brassy gleam. “Took you long enough,” he growled. “What did you have to do, fetch them from the mint?”
sesterces
that she handed him, scowling at their brassy gleam. “Took you long enough,” he growled. “What did you have to do, fetch them from the mint?”
“Was that lock giving you trouble again, Mistress?” Julia asked with an air of great solicitude. Turning to the customer, she went on, “You should hear all the things Mistress Umma calls that lock. Anybody would think she'd been in the legion herself, not just married to a veteranâmay he rest in peace among the shades.”
“Heh,” the man said: one syllable's worth of laughter. He tossed the change into his purse and stalked off jingling.
When he was gone, Nicole lifted her brows at Julia. “Am I really as bad as that about the lock?” she asked.
Julia nodded, wide-eyed: another of her exaggerated stage effects. “Worse, Mistress, since you're the one who wants to know,” she replied. Lucius and Aurelia mirrored her nod, big eyes and all. So were they in it together, or was NicoleâUmmaâas paranoid as that?
It paid to be paranoid in Los Angeles, but here? What could there be to be afraid of, that anyone from the twentieth century should worry aboutâexcept being discovered for what she was?
It was midmorning, as best Nicole could determine, and the children still showed no sign of going off to school. Either this was a weekend (did the Romans have weekends?),
or they didn't go. Nicole could read and write, of course, and she'd seen that she was literate in Latin, too. Had Umma been as well? She hadn't seen any books in the bedroom, but that didn't prove anything. There hadn't been any in her bedroom in West Hills, either, only the latest issue of
Cosmo.
Most of the books in the house, and all the bookcases, had gone with Frank. If Nicole ever had time to read at all, she read legal briefs that she'd brought home from the office.
or they didn't go. Nicole could read and write, of course, and she'd seen that she was literate in Latin, too. Had Umma been as well? She hadn't seen any books in the bedroom, but that didn't prove anything. There hadn't been any in her bedroom in West Hills, either, only the latest issue of
Cosmo.
Most of the books in the house, and all the bookcases, had gone with Frank. If Nicole ever had time to read at all, she read legal briefs that she'd brought home from the office.
These children of Umma's weren't completely idle. They seemed to have their chores: cracking nuts, chopping scallions, sweeping out between waves of customers. They played, too, at headlong speed, till the inevitable happened: Aurelia screeched, Lucius whooped, they were on each other like cats and dogs. Nicole, as much amused as notâchildren, it seemed, were the same in every place and timeâwaded in and separated them. “There now,” she said, “you know that's not nice. Lucius, be good to your little sister. Aurelia, don't poke your brother, it's rude. Now be good. Mother's busy.”
Nicole went back to grinding wheat into flour. It was hard work: her shoulder had already started to ache. Lucius and Aurelia watched her for a little while in silence, as if fascinated; then they were at it again, Aurelia poking, Lucius thumping with his fist, one screeching, the other jeering, till it escalated into honest violence.
Nicole hissed between her teeth, left the mill for the second time and pulled them apart again, not quite so gently as before. Sore shoulder, toothache that never went away, and now children who refused to yield to reason, left her very little patience to spare. She held them apart in a firm grip, and glared into their flushed faces. “Didn't the two of you listen to a word I said?”
“Well, yes, Mother,” Lucius answered seriously, “but you didn't hit us, so you couldn't have really meant it.” Aurelia nodded as if she thought exactly the same preposterous thing.
Nicole stared at both of them. She understood the words they saidâas words. The thoughts behind them were as strange to her as the far side of the moon. Umma must beat
them, she thought, for them to talk that way. Hadn't Lucius flinched earlier when he'd thought she was going to wallop him?
them, she thought, for them to talk that way. Hadn't Lucius flinched earlier when he'd thought she was going to wallop him?
At the same time, they didn't act the way abused children were supposed to actâthe way she'd learned in law school they acted. There weren't any marks on them, bruises or evident broken bones. They didn't cringe when she lifted a hand, not unless they'd done something they thought deserved a spanking, or go mute when she spoke. There was nothing subdued about them. Lucius spoke of being hit calmly, as if it were something he was used to, and nothing exceptional at all.
Other books
Queen of Nothing (Marla Mason Book 9) by T.A. Pratt
Fourth of July Creek by Smith Henderson
After the End by Bonnie Dee
Code Black by Donlay, Philip S.
The Coachman's Daughter by Gayle Eden
Now or Never by Jamie Canosa
Heartache High by Jon Jacks
Who Loves You Best by Tess Stimson
Masquerade by Rife, Eileen
Theirs by Eve Vaughn
