by Judith Tarr
By their expressions, Lucius and Aurelia didn’t just wonder about the wisdom of what she proposed, they wondered about her sanity. They didn’t say anything, which was probably a good thing. Nicole found herself mortified at her ancestress’ habits: starting on wine when the sun came up, slapping the children around… What else did Umma do that would embarrass and worse than embarrass anyone who knew anything about health, hygiene, or progressive parenting? And when, and in what mortifying ways, would Nicole find out about it?
Lucius and Aurelia went off about some business of their own that, at least, did not involve fighting. Nicole went back to the flour mill. Before too long, she wondered how Umma found time to be any kind of mother, even a bad one. Grinding grain into flour was slow, dull work. “How many loaves do you think we’ll need today?” Nicole asked Julia.
“Doesn’t look like a fast day,” the slave said thoughtfully. “Doesn’t look like a slow day, either. Maybe we’ll get away with twenty-five; we have a good bit left over from yesterday. But thirty would be better, don’t you think?”
“I’m afraid I do,” Nicole said with a sigh. Baking thirty loaves from scratch was a long day’s work when scratch meant store-bought flour. When scratch meant wheat that needed to be ground before it could even be used, it was worse than that.
She’d made bread a few times, back in West Hills, before Frank walked out on her — when she’d had time, or made time, to cook her own, healthy meals. There was a wonderfully sensuous pleasure in mixing the flour and the yeast, adding the water or milk or buttermilk, honey or eggs or butter, mixing them in with strong slow strokes, then heaping the rich-scented elastic dough on the floured board and working it, kneading and rolling and kneading it again till it was just exactly right to let rise and bake. Later on, Frank had bought her a bread machine, but even before she realized it was a guilt-gift — a kind of material apology for his affair with Dawn — she’d put it away to gather dust. There just wasn’t any tactile pleasure in dumping ingredients into a plastic box and letting it do all the kneading and rising and baking for her.
No bread machines here. No KitchenAid, either, with its miracle of a dough hook. Her own fingers did the kneading now, hers and Julia’s and, after they’d been washed and washed again, Aurelia’s. Lucius was off somewhere else by then, or she’d have put him to work there, too.
She had to keep stopping for customers, too, which didn’t make things any easier. Most wanted something from the unwritten menu, whose contents everyone seemed to know. A few brought in meat or fish and expected her to do the cooking — that took her aback the first time, and nearly blew her cover. Luckily Julia took the fish and slapped it on the grill without a word or a look of surprise, giving Nicole the cue for her own reaction. Everyone, whether he ate or not, drank wine: plain for an as, better for a dipondius and the best she had for a sestertius a cup. People didn’t seem to have heard of distilled liquor. Wine was all there was here. It was enough, and bad enough. The smell of it would stay with her, she was sure, even if she were transported back to West Hills in an instant.
Since she was unfamiliar with the oven, she had Julia bake the first batch of bread, eight loaves’ worth, so she could learn by watching. It wasn’t so simple as setting the heat control at 350 and coming back in half an hour. The slave had to keep the fire burning evenly, and to go by guess when it came to timing. She had a knack, or the ease of long practice. She did it right the first time, and then a second, as casual about it as if she’d done nothing special at all. And maybe, in this world, she hadn’t.
After that, she popped the as Ofanius Valens had given her in her mouth, since there wasn’t a pocket anywhere in Carnuntum that Nicole had seen, and her tunic lacked a belt and therefore one of the ubiquitous pouchlike purses. With that, and with a grin and a wave to her mistress, she went off to the baths.
Nicole had a not very brief, completely cowardly thought of forbidding her to go. Julia’s departure left Nicole in charge of the taberna. Umma must have been able to do it on her own, or Julia would never even have offered to leave. Nicole felt overwhelmed as soon as the slave got out of sight. She had to bake the bread, cook for her customers, serve them, rinse their dishes in water that started out clean but didn’t stay that way — no lemon-scented dishwashing liquid here, and no dishwasher, either — and keep half an eye, or a quarter of an eye, or an eighth, on the children. Her children, she reminded herself. If she didn’t look out for them, nobody would.
She burned her hand getting her own first batch of loaves out of the oven. She plunged it into the dishwater, which, if not cold, was at least cool. The only soothing thing she could find to put on the burn was olive oil. It seemed to help a little. She would never have used it back in West Hills, but this was Carnuntum. No Aloe-Heal here. Not even an aloe plant. The price I pay for freedom, she thought.
Freedom, at the moment, looked suspiciously like drudgery. She was too busy even to notice how busy she was.
There were compensations. The loaves she’d turned out weren’t quite perfect; she’d let the crust get browner and thicker than Julia had done. But they were damn good, she thought, for a first try. The customers certainly didn’t object. If they said anything at all, it was to demand another piece hacked off the loaf.
The rest of her cooking passed the test, too, though a couple of people noticed her style wasn’t the same as Umma’s. “Next time I bring you a sow’s womb,” a plump fellow said, “I’ll want it seethed in honey and vinegar, the way you usually do it, not just grilled with garlic. This wasn’t bad, but I like the other better.”
She nodded, gulping a little. She hadn’t known what to do with the odd-shaped lump of meat she’d been handed. For that matter, she hadn’t known what the odd-shaped lump of meat was. Now that she did, she wished she didn’t.
She struggled for objectivity, the same mental distance she’d cultivated in the courtroom or in dealing with clients who weren’t quite the kind of people she’d want in the same room with her kids. What the plump man had suggested didn’t actually sound too bad, though she wouldn’t have chosen that particular cut or recipe for sweet-and-sour pork.
Just as Nicole was taking the last batch of loaves out of the oven, Julia came back at last from the baths. The slave smelled much better than she had before, and her skin was several shades lighter, closer to the milky white that Nicole would have expected with her fair coloring and Germanic features. She still wasn’t as fresh as Nicole would have been coming out of the shower. That newly milky skin smelled potently of olive oil. That, Nicole realized, was one of the many rank perfumes that impregnated the tunic Julia still wore. Not only hadn’t she had it cleaned, Nicole didn’t think it ever had been cleaned, not in the months — maybe years — Julia had been wearing it.
Still, thought Nicole, the bath had been an improvement. Julia carried herself a little straighter, hunched her shoulders a little less. She examined the new-baked bread with a judicious eye. “A little underdone,” she judged, “but no one will complain about it.” She beamed at Nicole. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble, Mistress. The bath was wonderful.”
She punctuated that with a happy wiggle that caught the eye of every male in the place. There all too obviously wasn’t anything between her body and the much-worn tunic. Equally obviously, she hadn’t been quite dry when she put the tunic back on after her bath. A wet T-shirt it wasn’t, but it left precious little to imagination.
Nicole couldn’t match Julia’s happy tone, not with the thoughts she was thinking. “All right,” she said a bit more roughly than she’d intended. “Get back to work.”
Julia obeyed her with evident contentment. From the way she was acting, she’d expected nothing gentler, and probably something a great deal more harsh. Even in her depths of disgust for the male half of the species, Nicole couldn’t seem to match Umma for ferocity.
Sometime in the late afternoon — Nicole kept glancing at her left wrist, at a watch that wasn’t there — Titus Calidiu
s Severus strode briskly into the restaurant with a pair of plump trout. “Hello, Umma,” he said cheerfully. “Thought I’d wait till things thinned out over here before I brought you these to fry.”
He smelled worse than the fish would have if he’d left them in the sun for three days. Nicole’s nose had tuned out most of the background stink of Carnuntum, but the fuller and dyer might have had a chamberpot spilled over his head. As she dipped the trout in an egg-and-flour batter she’d made up not long before, Nicole approached that by — she hoped — easy stages: “Do you have to have those jars out in front of your shop for — for men to — to piss in?”
“You’ve teased me about that often enough,” he said with a chuckle. She had, had she? Or Umma had. Nicole wasn’t teasing. Not in the least. He went on, “They’re not wagging their prongs at you, dear, even if it looks that way.” He reached across the counter and chucked her under the chin.
No one, not here, not anywhere, had ever done that to her. Even as a child, she hadn’t been the kind of little girl who invited such an insult. She certainly didn’t either invite or accept it as an adult. She slapped his hand down. To her utter fury, he only laughed and said, “Ai, pretty lady! I’ve had mates in the legion who weren’t as fierce as you.”
Nicole sucked in a breath, nearly choking on it. Her voice when it came was almost too tight to be audible. “Don’t you — ever — do that to me again. Or you won’t eat these fish, you’ll wear them.”
Somewhat to her surprise, he seemed to realize that she meant it. “All right,” he said willingly enough, if with a hint of puzzlement. “You never said you didn’t like it before — but what’s a woman if she can’t change her mind, eh?” He shrugged, grinned rather ruefully at himself, and went on more seriously, “Right. So. Pisspots. Don’t like them either, do you? Look at it this way. They’re neater than pissing against the wall — and I’d be out of work without them. There’s nothing like stale piss to get the grease out of wool so it’ll hold the dye. If rosewater would do the trick, I’d use it. But alas, pretty lady, it doesn’t.”
Nicole finished frying the trout in silence. She hadn’t thought whether Calidius Severus might actually need the urine he collected. She hadn’t wanted to think about it. Not to put too fine a point on it, she’d been too busy being grossed out.
She was supposed to be glad that this was a more natural, more organic world than the one she’d left: no plastics, no polyester, no coal-tar dyes. Urine was natural, all right; anyone who’d ever changed a baby knew that. But Carnuntum was rubbing her nose in the fact that natural and pleasant weren’t necessarily synonyms, no matter what the commercials for Quaker 100 % Natural said.
As Calidius began to eat his fish, he set a dupondim on the counter. Nicole started to give him back an as. He waved for her not to bother. “Call it a peace offering,” he said.
“All right,” she said after a pause. “A peace offering. Thank you.”
“These trout are good,” he said after he’d taken a bite or two. “I don’t think you ever did them quite like this before. Tasty.” He ate another mouthful. He used his fingers. They were a peculiar color, like nothing human: mottled blue and green and muddy brown, as if in dyeing cloth he had dyed his skin with it.
As for his table manners, nobody here had any better. Nicole had found spoons and a few knives in a pot by a stack of plates, but no forks. She wondered if Calidius had washed his hands before coming over with the fish. Then she wished she hadn’t. He said, “I don’t want you angry at me, you know.”
“I’m not angry,” she answered, more or less sincerely.
“Good.” He studied her. “Are you not-angry enough for me to come over tonight?” The meaning of that was unmistakable — and, as plainly, he expected her to say yes. Her face froze.
He saw. His own face stiffened in response. He stood up abruptly, grimaced, and shoved the plate at her. There was no meat left, only bones, neatly picked and pushed into a pile. Without a word, he stamped out of the restaurant.
Julia was gaping. So were all three of the remaining customers. Nicole sighed. So Umma and Calidius had been an item, had they? Why on earth the woman whose body Nicole was wearing would want a man who smelled like an outhouse was beyond her.
Whatever the reason for it, Julia obviously thought Umma and Titus Calidius Severus had had a good thing going. Well, to hell with what Julia thought. Nicole had come back here for herself, not to play bedwarmer to the piss merchant across the street.
She would have told Julia so, in no uncertain terms, but two more men and a woman came into the place just then, and set her to running about again. She stayed busy till sundown, which came late this time of year.
As soon as it began to get dark, business didn’t just fall off: it died. Nicole didn’t fully understand that till she lighted a lamp. Matches she didn’t have; she had to use a twist of straw from a basket by one of the cookfires, and light it from the fire. The oil-soaked wick sputtered and guttered before it came alive. The flame did next to nothing to push back the gathering gloom. Not for the first time, and very probably not for the last, she missed the daily magic of electric power.
The taberna was empty. So was the street. The children had come in not long before, devoured a supper of bread and cheese and a little of the smoked pork, and gone upstairs with Julia. They hadn’t insisted that she kiss them, though they’d stood in a line, slave and children alike, and said a polite good night. Nicole hadn’t tried to keep them downstairs, or tried to persuade them to eat a few vegetables with their bread and protein. She was too tired to fight that battle tonight. Tomorrow, she’d promised herself, on the children’s behalf. Even as she thought it she’d been struck with a memory of older guilt: Justin and his chicken nuggets and French fries, eating a meal that couldn’t possibly be good for him, because his mother was too tired to fix a proper dinner.
She missed him suddenly, so fiercely that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She missed Kimberley. She missed the house in West Hills. She even -
No. She didn’t miss Frank. Not for one split second.
She took the lamp with her to the front door and stood in it, peering out. Good Lord, she thought: she hadn’t set foot outside all day. She looked across the street, then up and down. A few torches and lamps flickered, but only a few. Above the flat black line of roofs, a piercingly bright star — Venus? — hung in the western sky, at the edge of the skirts of twilight.
After work back in West Hills, she would have watched TV or read a magazine or put a CD on the stereo. No TV here, no magazines, no stereo or CDs.
Even if she’d had the energy for them, she’d have been too exhausted to bother. She pulled the solid weight of the door shut and barred it, then shuttered the windows. Picking up the feeble lamp again from where she’d set it on the table by the door, she retrieved the cash box and carried it upstairs. The stairs seemed steeper than ever in that bare hint of light, narrow and precipitous and ripe for a fall. But she managed them without even tripping, let alone breaking her neck.
The curtains were drawn in the other rooms. She ventured to look in. Two were empty, though one had a bed in it. The third was full of the sound of quiet breathing. Something large lay across the door. The rasp of a snore sent Nicole starting back, even as she realized what it was. Julia, sleeping on the floor, being a living obstacle to anything that tried to come in and get at the children. It was touching, in its way, though Nicole made a mental note to give Julia permission to sleep in one of the unused rooms. Whatever those were for. Guests? Storage? In the morning, or whenever she could, she’d have to look and see.
But not tonight. She was swaying on her feet. If Julia hadn’t been in the way, she might have gone in and tucked the children in as she would have done with Justin or Kimberley, but she wasn’t at all sure she could do it without waking the slave. Best to let them be.
In the room that she’d begun to think of as hers, she set the lamp on the chest and the cash box beside it. She had no
energy at all for wrestling the heavy chest and hiding the box. What could happen to it, after all? The door was locked below, and she’d barred the door up here. She used the chamberpot — a luxury she’d had too little of in that long full day — and let herself sink down on the bed. Before she could even rise to blow out the lamp, she was deeply and soundly asleep.
5
Nicole woke earlier than she’d intended. The lamp had gone out. It was pitch-black outside, though the moon had climbed over the roof of the house, the shop, whatever it was, next door and sent a thin strip of wan gray light through the bedroom window. She hadn’t bothered to shutter it: this was the second floor; what could get in?
She noticed the light only peripherally, in that it helped her find the chamberpot. The one advantage of having the damned thing right there under the bed was that she didn’t need to race down the hall to the bathroom. That was as well, for she didn’t think she would have made it. The next couple of minutes were among the most urgently unpleasant she’d known for as long as she could remember.
“Stomach flu!” she groaned when the worst of it was over. What awful luck!
It was even more awful than she’d thought at first. There wasn’t any toilet paper. She used one of the rags from the drawer in the chest, and threw it into the chamberpot afterwards. And regretted instantly and powerfully that it wasn’t a toilet after all. A toilet you could flush. A pot just sat there, stinking. She lay back down with another groan. Even without the stink, she didn’t think she’d have gone back to sleep again in a hurry. She could tell she wasn’t done yet. A herd of buffalo with iron hooves was stampeding through her guts.
Just as she finished the second bout — almost as bad as the first, and no promise more wasn’t coming — somebody knocked on her door. “What is it?” she said weakly, amazed she’d remembered to use Latin. If it wasn’t the end of the world, she had no intention of getting up for it.