Household Gods (48 page)
Authors: Judith Tarr
Her curiosity was as sharp as ever, too. “What were you talking to Dexter about?” she asked as she worked flour into the first batch of the day's bread.
Nicole started chopping nuts and raisins for sweet cakes. She took her time in answering. “We were talking about the woman who got sick when Titus and I were at the mime show,” she said. She didn't really have to, or particularly want to, but Julia was the closest thing she had to a female
friend in this world. She had a pressing need, suddenly, to share the worry with someone else.
friend in this world. She had a pressing need, suddenly, to share the worry with someone else.
Julia didn't appear to know or care that there was something to worry about. She smiled at Nicole's use of Titus Calidius Severus' praenomen. She'd made it clear long since that she thought the two of them were a good match. If she could see them married off, Nicole was sure, she'd be the happiest freedwoman in Carnuntum. “How is the woman?” she asked.
“Dead,” Nicole answered baldly.
Julia didn't go pale, or reel, or seem at all shocked. “Oh,” she said without much evident emotion. “That's too bad.”
People in Carnuntum were on very much more intimateâand much more casualâterms with death than people were in the United States of the late twentieth century. Julia's offhand observation was one more signpost on a well-marked road. She took for granted the possibility that a person could get sick and drop dead, just like that. From what Nicole had seen of the state of the medical art, that wasn't the least bit surprising.
They worked in silence, in the well-worn groove of two people who'd been coworkers for so long, they no longer needed to think about how they shared this task or that. Just as the bread came out of the oven, the first of the morning's regulars showed up at the door. He hawked and spat before he came in, and coughed.
Nicole had let down her guard a little. Her stomach had even begun to unclench. Now it went as tight as a fist. Julia, oblivious, served the man his regular cup of one-as wine and his half-loaf of bread with olive oil to dip it in.
As he thanked and paid her, a confusion of distant sound resolved itself into sense. A funeral procession made its sorrowful way toward and then past the tavern. Professional mourners wailed and keened. Musicians thumped and tootled their dirges. Friends and relatives of the deceased straggled behind the bier. They'd gone for an older extravagance than Fabia Ursa's funeral party had: faces streaked with ashes, tunics ceremonially rent. Under the marks of formal grief,
their expressions were set, stunned. Just outside the doorway, one of them said, “But he was so young!”
their expressions were set, stunned. Just outside the doorway, one of them said, “But he was so young!”
So, Nicole thought numbly. People could think like that here, too. She resisted an urge to run out and ask what the boy had died of. People did die of things other than pestilence. Young people especially, and children most of all.
She was not reassured. When the procession had passed and faded into the background hum of the city, someone in the street sneezed. She jumped like a startled cat.
Right behind her, Lucius sneezed explosively. Her heart leaped into her throat. She whirled. “Are you all right?” she practically shrieked at him.
When she'd first come to Carnuntum, that concern would have been partly feigned. Not now. Little by little, by almost imperceptible stages, Lucius and Aurelia had become hers. And if one of hers was sneezingâ
But he looked at her as if she'd gone demented, and laughed at her expression. “Oh, Mother! I'm fine.”
Julia glared at him, and shook her finger under his nose. Which, Nicole happened to notice, had a somewhat dusty look to it. “He was trying to breathe flour,” she said. “I saw him grab a pinch.”
“Oh, he was, was he?” Nicole said in a dangerous purr. “You did, did you?”
Lucius might be silly, but he wasn't stupid. He recognized the sort of question that meant he should make himself scarce.
He didn't recognize it quite soon enough. Nicole caught him by the arm as he scooted past. Her free hand applied a fundamental lesson to his seat of knowledge. His squawk had more surprise in it than pain. Her second whack remedied the imbalance.
She let him go. He scampered off, not much the worse for wear. He didn't indulge in the tears and histrionics that an American child would have gone in for. Less than a minute later, he was laughing again.
Children were tough little creatures: tougher than Nicole had realized. She was the one who stood as if poleaxed,
staring at her own hand. Why in the world had she just done
that?
She never had before. She would have been appalled if she'd thought before she did it. She was worried, that was it. Worried half to death. That worry had magnified her anger at what was, at worst, mild misbehavior.
staring at her own hand. Why in the world had she just done
that?
She never had before. She would have been appalled if she'd thought before she did it. She was worried, that was it. Worried half to death. That worry had magnified her anger at what was, at worst, mild misbehavior.
It didn't seem reason enough. It probably wasn't. But it also probably hadn't been child abuse. Nicole wouldn't have said that before she came to Carnuntum. It was happening again: the Romans she lived among had infected her with their own attitudes.
It was better than being infected with measles, or whatever this new and deadly disease was.
She was still thinking about that when Sextus Longinius
came in and sat at one of the tables near the door. “Let me have a cup of your one-as wine, would you, Umma,” he said, “and some olives, too, if you please.”
came in and sat at one of the tables near the door. “Let me have a cup of your one-as wine, would you, Umma,” he said, “and some olives, too, if you please.”When she'd given him what he asked for and he'd paid her, she paused. He looked all rightânot wonderful, not happy, but not broken down with grief, either. People who couldn't deal with death wouldn't last long in this world. “How's your son?” she asked.
He spat out an olive pit and drank a swallow of wine. “He seems healthy enough, the gods be praised. Fabia Honorata's looking after him right now.”
Nicole suppressed a stab of guilt. She should have gone over there days ago and seen if she could help. But she'd been busy, the tavern took up most of her time, she had her own kids to raiseâ
No, she thought. Face it. She hadn't gone over because she hadn't known what to say, and she couldn't be bothered with a baby on top of everything else.
She raised an eyebrow at the baby's father. “Fabia Honorata? Not the wet nurse?”
“No, not the wet nurse,” Longinius lulus answered. He did look a little haggard after all. “That's the other reason I came in here. She's sick. It's the new sickness that's been going around, the one that really hits you hard. Gods only know if she'll pull through. I wanted to ask you who nursed Aurelia.
That wasn't so long agoâshe might still be in business.”
That wasn't so long agoâshe might still be in business.”
Nicole's first thought was pity. What a life for a woman, going from baby to baby, no more valued for herself than a milk cow, and not too different from one either. Perpetually full and aching breasts, no relief from baby howls and ba-byshit, and no time off unless she wanted her livelihood to dry up.
Hard on the heels of that came fear. If the wet nurse was down with the pestilence, that meant she'd brought it into the tinker's shop. Even now it might be fighting a still-silent war against his body's defenses. And if that was so, then he was breathing it right into her face.
She didn't want to feel what she feltâit wasn't noble at all. She wanted him to go away. She gave what answer she could, as patiently as she could, considering. “I don't really remember the name of the woman who nursed Aurelia,” she said. “It's been a bit of a while, after all. Julia, do you recall?”
Julia came to the rescue as she so often had before, with the ingrained habit of obedience, and a nature that accepted whatever people chose to throw at her. “Wasn't that Velina, the wet nurse who used to live on the other side of the place where the town council meets?” she said. “Didn't she and her husband move back to Vindobona last year, to be with his kin?”
“Yes, she did. I remember that,” Longinius lulus said. Nicole nodded and hoped her face didn't look too blankly foolish. She'd had to do that again and again when pretending to recall things Umma certainly would have remembered. Sooner or later, someone was going to trip her up over it.
Not today. Please God, not tomorrow either, or the day after.
“What will you do now?” she asked Longinius lulus.
He sighed. “Have to look for somebody else, I suppose,” he answered. “I can't feed him myself, though I wish to heaven I could. It'd be a lot easier and cheaper. If Fabia Ursa had livedâ” He broke off, took a deep breath, blinked rapidly
but held in the tears. “It's the gods' will. Isis' priestess said it, so it must be true.”
but held in the tears. “It's the gods' will. Isis' priestess said it, so it must be true.”
But it
wasn't
the gods' will. It was plain old ignorance and lack of sanitation. Fabia Ursa needn't have died.
wasn't
the gods' will. It was plain old ignorance and lack of sanitation. Fabia Ursa needn't have died.
If Nicole had told anyone how antibiotics could cure childbed fever, they'd have thought she was mad. And she couldn't prove that it worked. She knew
that
it worked, but not
why
it worked or
how
to make it work. It had been just the same with the measles vaccine, and with the concept of antisepsis, of touching a woman in labor with absolutely clean hands so that she wouldn't pick up the germs that caused childbed fever. Nobody here believed that such a thing could exist. And she had no way to show them.
that
it worked, but not
why
it worked or
how
to make it work. It had been just the same with the measles vaccine, and with the concept of antisepsis, of touching a woman in labor with absolutely clean hands so that she wouldn't pick up the germs that caused childbed fever. Nobody here believed that such a thing could exist. And she had no way to show them.
If she'd stopped to think at all, before she lived this life, she'd have thought that she could save the world with all the things she knew. But she didn't know anything that really matteredâanything that could
help,
or that anyone would let her use to help.
help,
or that anyone would let her use to help.
“I'm sorry,” she said, meaning all of it, more than he could ever know.
“I'm sorry, too,” Longinius lulus said. “I miss Fabia.”
And yet, even as he said it, and seemed to mean it, his eyes slid toward Julia, who stood at the hand mill grinding grain into flour. Julia couldn't even be conscious of the way the tunic clung to her body as she worked, or how her breasts bounced, big double handfuls that had never been softened or slackened by the bearing or nursing of a baby.
All Nicole's sympathy for him evaporated. Was that why he missed Fabia Ursa: because she was available whenever he wanted a stroke? Did he think he could go upstairs with Julia, someday when Nicole wasn't around to say no?
Nicole scowled. She was angry at him, but at herself too. He'd loved his wifeâhe'd worn it on his face when he looked at her, and in his voice when he spoke of her. If he was still a normal man, if he still could want what a woman gave, who was she to fault him for it? Nicole hadn't exactly shut herself down when Frank walked out, either.
I didn't go looking for a prostitute,
she thought starchily.
But there'd been that fast-talking son of a bitch who'd made all that noise about being the youngest man in his firm to make senior partner, except of course he hadn't made it yet, but everybody knew it was just a matter of time. She couldn't even remember his name. She'd let him talk her into bed just to prove that she could still get a man; that a man could still want her, even if Frank had traded her in on a younger model. Compared to that, a straightforward transaction with a whore didn't look quite so bad.
she thought starchily.
But there'd been that fast-talking son of a bitch who'd made all that noise about being the youngest man in his firm to make senior partner, except of course he hadn't made it yet, but everybody knew it was just a matter of time. She couldn't even remember his name. She'd let him talk her into bed just to prove that she could still get a man; that a man could still want her, even if Frank had traded her in on a younger model. Compared to that, a straightforward transaction with a whore didn't look quite so bad.
At long last Longinius lulus finished his wine. “Thanks, Umma,” he said, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. “I'll head over to the market square, I guess. Either I'll find a wet nurse there who can take on another baby, or else I'll find somebody who knows one.”
“Ask at Sextus Viridius' stall,” Julia said. “I heard one of his daughters might be setting up as a wet nurse, since her husband walked out on her and left her with a newborn baby.”
Longinius lulus looked ready to kiss her, but either he was too shy or he had more self-control than Nicole might have credited him with. “I'll try that,” he said. “Thank you, Julia.”
She smiled. He waved impartially at them both, but mostly at Julia, and left in rather better spirits than Nicole might have expected.
She let out a long sigh. Part of it was sympathy for the tinker's plight. The rest was a desire to rid her lungs of as much of the air he'd breathed at her as she could.
Julia echoed her sigh. “He's having a hard time,” she said. “First his wife, now his baby's nurseâyou'd think he'd done some god a bad turn. And yet he's such a nice man. If I had any luck to spare, I'd give it to him.”
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