This was Nicole’s worst twentieth-century nightmare come to life. Men with unlimited license to do as they pleased, with and to women. Next to this, Tony Gallagher’s crude come-on in the office had been the height of Old World courtesy.
She braced to knock yet again, but hesitated. Hadn’t the German pounded on the door before he dragged Antonina out? She must think there was another barbarian out here, looking for more sport.
“Antonina? ‘ she called. “It’s Umma.”
Something stirred inside, a rustle, a muted scrape. Nicole sagged in relief. It might not be Antonina — for all she knew, it was a rat scuttling across the floor — but there was something, someone, alive in there. She knocked again, less peremptorily.
“Go away!” Antonina snapped at her from within, as sharp as ever, and deeply exasperated. “Leave me alone.”
Nicole almost laughed. Yes, that was Antonina, all charm and sweetness. “I want to help, if I can,” Nicole said.
The door opened abruptly. Antonina glared out at Nicole. “Help what? Help spread news of my shame through the whole city?”
“No!” Nicole protested. Damn, if only she’d found a spare hour a day to serve on a crisis hotline. She knew what those operators were supposed to do, but not how they were supposed to do it. She’d been too busy divorcing Frank, raising two kids, making partner…
She breathed deep and let it out slowly. Patience. That much she knew. You had to be patient. “Look. What happened wasn’t your fault. No one should think any less of you because of it.”
Antonina stared at her as if she’d never seen her before. After a stretching pause, she said, “You’d better come in.” Nicole gathered her wits and did as she was told. Antonina shut the door behind her and barred it tightly. “Don’t want those murdering demons coming by and seeing us,” she said.
“I should think not,” Nicole said. Voice soft, movements slow. It worked with animals; why not with a severely traumatized human? They stood in a darkened room, darker than the tavern had been, with all the shutters closed tight, and one stingy lamp burning. The room was full of shadows: shadows draped over furniture, hung on the walls, piled on the floor.
Antonina’s late husband had been a tailor. These weren’t shadows. These were cloaks and tunics and hoods, some cut, some half-sewn, some all but finished and waiting for the final touches. Bolts of cloth stood against the far wall, some with pieces cut and hanging, others bound up tightly. The air was full of the odor of new wool.
“I’m sorry about your husband,” Nicole said. “He was a brave man.”
“Castinus?” Antonina snorted. “Sure he was brave. He was stupid.” Nicole couldn’t think what to say. Antonina sounded as if she’d barely known the man at all, still less loved and married him. “Stupid,” she repeated. “He never in his life did anything so — so — “ Then, to Nicole’s lasting astonishment and considerable dismay, she gasped. Her eyes opened wide. And she cried out, a great, raw wail of pain and loss. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She flung herself into Nicole’s arms and wept as if her heart would break.
Nicole unlocked the joints that had gone rigid when Antonina sprang at her, and stroked Antonina’s filthy hair as she had Lucius’ earlier. “Yes. Grieve. It’s all right. It’s good. Let it all out. You’ll feel better.”
“I’ll never feel better!” Antonina cried. Then she stiffened. She pulled away from Nicole and looked about wildly. “I have to be quiet. They’ll hear me if I’m not quiet. ‘ And yet, as she looked around, as she saw the evidence of her husband’s labors wherever her eyes fell, a new, long wail escaped her, and she dove again for what security she might find m Nicole’s arms.
“It’s all right,” Nicole said somewhat lamely. “I’m sure it’s all right.” And then, bitterly: “They like hearing women mourn. It reminds them how bold and brave and downright manly they are, to give us cause to weep.”
“Barbarians,” Antonina spat, in between spasms of tears. She clung to Nicole for a very long time. When she pulled away, it was sudden, as if she’d brought herself forcibly under control. Tears still dripped from her eyes; her nose was running. She wiped it on her sleeve. No handkerchiefs here. No Kleenex. She looked at Nicole through those red and streaming eyes, and sniffed loudly. “Thank you,” she said with what for Antonina was considerable graciousness. “The way things usually are between us, I hadn’t expected this from you.” She paused to draw a long breath. “Sometimes it’s not so bad to be wrong.”
“No,” Nicole said. “It’s not.”
Antonina sniffed again, almost her old scornful sound. “I can tell why the barbarians didn’t bother you. What did you do, take a bath in the chamberpot? I wish I’d thought of that.” This was good, Nicole thought. Antonina was herself again, more or less.
Nicole answered the question with some pride: “I took Julia across the street to Gaius Calidius Severus’ and splashed us both with the really ripe stuff.”
“That was clever,” Antonina said, “though I’d have thought Julia would have enjoyed taking on a dozen or so stalwart Marcomanni.” Yes, she was definitely on the mend: she was up to being bitchy again.
Nicole sighed. “If Julia wants to sleep with the Germans, she probably will, and there isn’t much anybody can do about it. But if she doesn’t want to, they have no right to force her.”
“They have a right,” Antonina said bleakly: “the right of the strong over the weak.” She held up a hand before Nicole could speak. “Yes, my dear, I do understand you, but when has the world ever paid attention to a woman’s rights?”
“Not often enough,” Nicole had to concede.
Antonina nodded. She had no idea how long that would continue, but neither did she have any idea how much better things would get. Los Angeles of the Nineties, warts and all, was an infinitely better time and place for a woman than second-century Carnuntum.
Nicole knew that now. She also knew, or feared, that like most such wisdom, it came too late to do her any good.
Antonina’s storm of weeping had passed, and she seemed much the better for it. She wouldn’t be a danger to herself now, Nicole thought. Later, if she had a relapse, she might try something, but somehow Nicole suspected that Antonina was too tough for that.
“Listen,” Nicole said. “I have to go back — poor Julia’s all alone with a tavern full of drunken Germans. You come by if you need me, or call. One of us will come. “
“I’ll be all right,” Antonina said. “You go. Slit a German throat or two for me, will you?”
“I wish,” Nicole sighed.
Antonina didn’t laugh, or even smile, but her expression as she saw Nicole off was brighter than it had been since before Carnuntum fell. Nicole knew a moment’s apprehension: what if Antonina found a kitchen knife and came hunting Germans?
Not likely. People here might be unsanitary and they might be inclined toward sexism, but they weren’t casual killers. Not like the people who had conquered them. Which was probably why the Germans had won and the Romans had lost, but that was not a thought Nicole wanted to dwell on. Not if she had to face a tavern packed with drunken, snoring Germans.
Julia had drawn a stool up behind the bar and perched on it, elbows on the bar, chin in hands. She acknowledged Nicole with a lift of the brows: for Julia, a strikingly undemonstrative greeting. Her words revealed the cause of her preoccupation: “If we had anywhere to hide the bodies, I’d cut all their throats.”
“You and Antonina both,” Nicole said.
“Really? She’s alive?” Julia’s lack of enthusiasm wasn’t laudable, but Nicole could more or less understand it. Antonina wasn’t the most popular person in the neighborhood.
“Alive and well enough,” Nicole answered.