Just what did Julia think wine was? Or was it water she was afraid of? Nicole knew about not drinking the water in Third-World countries, but that was for Americans traveling away from their chlorinated, fluoridated, homogenized, pasteurized, all-clean-and-sanitized local water companies. People who actually lived in those countries did perfectly well on the water there. Wasn’t she – in Umma’s body – still standing up and not crouched groaning over a chamberpot?

So much ignorance. So much misunderstanding of what was best for people’s health. Maybe Liber and Libera had sent her back to make life better for these people, to teach them about sanitation and hygiene and healthy food and drink. Surely they hadn’t given her her wish just because she wanted it. There had to be something they meant her to do in return.

If she was to do any good, if that was what she was here for – and never mind if she wasn’t; she’d do it anyhow – she had to learn much more of this world and place than she knew. Knowing Latin, for instance, didn’t seem to let her know where anything was in Carnuntum.

Still, how hard could that be? Social mores and mental attitudes were rough, and she was working her way gingerly through those. Carnuntum itself was much simpler. If she’d found her way around Los Angeles, all hundreds of square miles of it, and even learned to drive its freeways without going catatonic with terror – she could learn what she needed to know about this much smaller, much less complicated town.

She didn’t know the date, either. Well, she could ask that, and she did, casually, as if it had slipped her mind.

“It’s four days before the Kalends of June, Mistress,” Julia said, and then added, “I think.” At least she wasn’t surprised to be asked.

May 28, Nicole thought after a moment of going back and forth between what she knew in Latin and what she knew in English. It was only half an answer, and the smaller half. “Everything’s going out of my head this morning,” she said with what she hoped was a light little laugh. “What year is it?”

“It’s – what? – the ninth year of the reign of Marcus Aurelius,” Julia said. Her voice held a little of the tone Nicole knew well: The boss is an idiot. it meant. But only a little. It was, oddly, maybe deceptively reassuring. Maybe Umma wasn’t a brutal slavemaster after all.

Or maybe it meant a slave didn’t dare step too far over the line. Nicole had seen that in offices with tyrannical bosses, or in houses where the parents were too strict. Employees, and kids, learned just how far they could go, and went that far and no further.

Lucius broke in on her thoughts with the air of the know-it-all proving he really did know it all: “The consuls for the year are Marcus Cornelius Cethegus and Gaius Erucius Clarus.”

Nice, Nicole thought. And no help at all. She might have heard of Marcus Aurelius once upon a time, but no way in the world did she know when he’d reigned. The other two names had a fine and ringing sound, but they meant exactly nothing. And what difference did it make, anyway, who or what a consul was? Were they like President and Vice President? King and queen? Lord Mayor of London?

Careful; she was getting sarcastic. She tried one more time, and hoped the strain didn’t show in her voice: “I wonder what year this would be by the Christian calendar?”

Lucius and Aurelia gaped, then made gagging noises – exactly as they’d done when she’d suggested they drink milk. Julia said with prim firmness, “I didn’t even know those nasty people had a calendar. I don’t have anything to do with them. They’re all crazy, or so you’d think, the way they act. Even I know better, and I’m only a slave. They don’t respect the gods. They won’t worship the Princeps – why, they throw themselves on legionaries’ swords if anyone tries to make them. If you ask me, they deserve whatever they get.”

That was more than Nicole had bargained for. She thought of herself as a Catholic, though she’d gone to church only a handful of times since she got married, and not at all since the divorce. Visions of catechism class, crucifix on the wall and sappy long-faced Jesus, Christians and lions and legionaries dicing in front of the Cross, swirled in her head, fast enough to make her dizzy. All that, and Victor Mature standing up to Peter Ustinov in a purple gown, while the choir’s voices swelled in the background.

She’d gone back that far? God. Or Jesus. Or somebody. And she hadn’t come back as a Christian, either. Somehow it had never occurred to her that that could happen, that she’d be – a pagan. Or something. It was startling how that struck her, that same twisting in the stomach she’d had when she was seven years old and had learned that not only were some people not Catholic, some people didn’t even believe in Jesus. “Will they go to hell?” she’d asked her mother.

She didn’t remember what her mother had said. Something impatient, probably: “Shut up and eat your dinner.” Her mother didn’t like answering hard questions. Her catechism teacher, when she asked the same question, had gone on about sincere belief, tolerance for other religions, and differing views of the afterlife. It had been more than she’d been ready to swallow, at that age. In a lot of ways, it still was.

Even worse than being a pagan, than being surrounded by pagans, was hearing one of them scorn the religion she’d grown up in. Never mind that she’d fallen away from it. Maybe political correctness had something in it after all. For that matter, so did simple politeness.

She drew breath to begin a reprimand, but let it out again without saying anything. What good would it do? She’d learned long ago never to get into arguments over politics or religion. People’s minds were always made up.

She glanced at Lucius and Aurelia. Was Aurelia named for Marcus Aurelius? Did they do things like that here?

For that matter, weren’t the children supposed to be getting ready for school? Did they even go to school? If they did, they weren’t showing any signs of it. Or was today Saturday? Sunday? Did Saturday or Sunday matter in Carnuntum in the ninth year of the reign of Marcus Aurelius, whenever that was? How could she find out without looking like an idiot again?

Before she could find an answer to any of those crowding questions, Julia said, “Oh! Mistress, here’s Ofanius Valens. He’s early today.” She leaped up and ran busily about, as if the boss had come into the office and found the secretaries in the middle of a kaffeeklatsch.

Nicole leaped up, too, but, once she was up, had no idea what to do. Christ! she thought in panic. A customer! At least Julia had given her his name. She scrambled to remember what a proper restaurant owner would say to a regular. “Good day to you, Ofanius Valens,” she said as smoothly as she could manage – fund-raisers were good practice; so were jury selections. “What can we get for you?”

He sat down on a stool: a thin fellow a few years younger than she, not too clean but not too dirty, either. He’d had horrible acne in his youth, which couldn’t be that long ago; his beard didn’t hide all the scars. “First time you’ve even asked in a while,” he said with a familiar chuckle. “My usual will do fine, thanks.”

And thank you, Ofanius Valens. I’ll remember you in my nightmares. Umma, no doubt, had known what his usual was. Nicole hadn’t the faintest idea. But maybe, she thought with a stab of relief, someone did. “Julia,” she said, “take care of him.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Julia said, and did. Along with his bread and oil, Ofanius Valens favored walnuts and green onions and the wine from under the second lid from the left. As he ate, the eye-watering pungency of the onions moved in around him and settled to stay.

He seemed content enough to have Julia deal with him rather than Umma in person. Nicole congratulated herself for escaping unscathed, for once, from yet another difficult situation. What she’d done didn’t dawn on her for a few moments. She’d ordered Julia about as a mistress would order a slave.