Household Gods

soft.

Queen bee, Nicole thought, and disliked the woman on sight.

One way and another, the tavern managed to empty of customers while Atpomara got herself settled. Either they knew something was up and were too polite to hang around and witness it, or people knew this family too well to want to be anywhere near it once it assembled in force. Even Julia, who wasn’t usually any kind of coward, muttered something about seeing if the kids were up to something upstairs, and left Nicole to face the music alone.

She had no doubt at all that that was what was coming. Six pairs of eyes followed Julia out of the room. If the men had been dogs, their tongues would have been hanging out. The women would have been bristling and snarling, of course, like bitches everywhere.

Oh, dear, Nicole thought. She really had taken a disliking to these relatives of Umma’s. There didn’t seem to be a great deal of close affection among them, either, not even enough to put up a pretense of squealing and cheek-kissing and oh-it’s-been-so-long. From the sisters’ expressions, they didn’t want to touch their poor relation for fear of catching a disease.

True, they were notably cleaner and better kempt than Nicole managed to be. By twentieth-century American standards they were still fairly ripe, and those elaborate hairstyles reminded Nicole rather forcibly of stories she’d heard her mother tell about the ratted and lacquered constructions of the Sixties, complete with urban legends of spiders and literal rats’ nests. She let herself dwell on that for a while, as she stood behind the bar and waited for someone to speak.

It took a long uncomfortable while, but Brigomarus didn’t disappoint her after all. “Good morning, Umma,” he said.

“Good morning,” she said civilly. “May I serve you anything? Wine? The bread’s fresh, and we have a nice raisin compote today.”

He glanced at the others. They were all affecting interest in matters far removed from this low and none too sanitary place. “No,” he said after a pause. “No, thank you. We won’t be staying long.”

“Really?” Nicole raised her eyebrows. “You’ve come for the company, then? That’s the only other reason to come to a tavern, isn’t it?”

“In… a manner of speaking,” he said. He was nicely uncomfortable. Or maybe his tunic was new and inclined to itch.

Nicole wasn’t going to give him any help at all. She folded her arms and waited him out. It had been a useful tactic in court. It did the job here. He blurted out what he maybe had been instructed to frame more tactfully, from the way Atpomara’s face clouded over. “Umma, what were you thinking? You know I forbade you to manumit that slave!”

“Julia, “ Nicole said with great care and attention to the woman’s name, “was my property. It was my decision, and my right, to set her free.”

“It was not,” Brigomarus said heatedly. She’d got him on the defensive, and he didn’t like it one bit. “You, in case you’ve forgotten, are a woman. A woman should not act without the approval of her male relatives. That’s the law. “

“It is also the law that a person of either sex may manumit a slave informally in the presence of a suitable number of witnesses. Male witnesses,” Nicole said pointedly. She reached under the bar where she’d stowed the box with the document in it, brought it out and laid it on the bar.

He made no move to pick it up, still less to read it. “You can’t do that,” he said.

“On the contrary,” said Nicole, “I already did.”

Evidently Atpomara decided that her son might be the light of her eye, but when it came to pitched battles, he needed stronger reinforcements. She shot a glare at the elder son-in-law that made him jerk forward as if stung. “What is done can be undone,” he said with blustering confidence. “Come, dear Umma, consider the path of reason, the light of good sense, the beauty of obedience to one’s blood and kin and kind. Was it not Homer who said, ‘Happy the man who loves his homeland’? Is not one’s family even more sacred? Should one not — “

Nicole had had plenty of practice in listening to pompous asses both on and off the judge’s bench, but her time in Carnuntum had worn her patience a little thinner than perhaps it should have been. She let him rattle on a while longer, till he came to something approximating a full stop. His words and theme were remarkably similar to twentieth-century political bombast, right down to the stump-thumping about Family Values.

When he paused for air, she said, “No.”

He gaped at her. He looked like a fish. “What — “

“No,” she repeated. “I doubt very much that Homer said any such thing.”

“Of course he did,” said Marcus Flavius Probus. And stood flat-footed, with all his fancy oratorical effects gone clean out of his head.

Good: she’d derailed him. Before he could scramble back on track, the other brother-in-law, Pacatus, opened his mouth to say something. Nicole ran right over him. “Does any of you have anything useful to say? I have a business to run, in case you haven’t noticed, and you’re keeping the customers out.”

The collective intake of breath was clearly audible. The sisters looked as if she’d grown three heads and started to bark. Umma apparently hadn’t been this outspoken, though from what Nicole knew of her, she’d had her share of problems with tact.

Atpomara confirmed it. She sniffed through her elegant nose and glared down it at the woman she thought was her daughter. Her severely declasse, increasingly embarrassing daughter. “Umma, my dear,” she said, “you were always headstrong and never particularly sensible, but this is remarkable even for you. Whatever possessed you to toss away four hundred denarii worth of highly useful slave? Whom, I may point out, your late lamented husband selected and purchased. Or is that why you did it? Have you found it so difficult to forgive a man the exercise of his natural impulses? “

“The man is dead,” Nicole said in a conspicuously reasonable tone. “He has nothing to do with why I chose to set Julia free.”

“Obviously,” the elder sister — Ila, yes — said, “nothing has anything to do with why you did it. It’s not as if you could afford to throw away that much money. Are you having an attack of remorse, the way the Christians are said to be prone to? Sometimes they give away everything before they believe they’re due to die.”

“She doesn’t look anywhere near dying yet,” the younger sister said with a sniff that tried and signally failed to be as haughty as her mother’s. “Mother, Ila, this is such a bore. Pacatus, take me home, do. I’ve a new perfume I’m dying to try, and I’ve been promised my necklace today, and my dressmaker will be waiting. You know how I hate to keep her waiting!”

Everybody ignored her, including her husband. Tabica, Nicole deduced, was a chronic whiner. She seemed the sort of person who would flaunt all her successes in her sister’s face, till it became habit so ingrained that she didn’t even know she did it.

Ila had more backbone, though her air of discontent was just as strong. She reminded Nicole of certain of the partners’ wives at her old law firm, in particular the ones who’d had ambitions — toward Hollywood, toward a profession, toward anything but being a trophy wife for a partner in a mediocre law firm. In Los Angeles there’d been a little scope for such women, jobs they could take, committees to lord it over, charities and benefits and the not-so-infrequent celebrity bash. Carnuntum had nothing to compare with that.

Ila didn’t whine. Ila exercised herself in rancor: “It’s not as if you were born to better things, Umma, though some of us have aspired to and even achieved them.” She slanted a glance at her mother, who sat in regal silence, letting her daughters make idiots of themselves. “Even so, a person of your status in the world should know better than to do a thing as ill-advised as this — and against the family’s wishes, too. Any foolish thing that you do, we bear the brunt of it.”

“Oh, do you?” Nicole inquired. “And how are you materially impaired by the freeing of my slave?”

Pacatus surprised her by rolling his eyes and whistling softly. “Oho! Been talking to some of your educated customers, have you? Which of them taught you those words?”

“Maybe I found them for myself,” Nicole said acidly. She folded her arms and tapped her foot. “Well? Do I get an answer? How does Julia’s manumission hurt you — aside from the blow to your pride?” To your little power trip, she wanted to say, but no words in Latin quite matched the idiom.

Nobody did answer, so she did it for them. “It doesn’t hurt you a bit, does it? It’s my financial loss, and my