“Vercingetorix,” an older woman greeted me. “My Simon tells me much about you. You must join us tonight for Shabbat, of course. Simon says you are a Jew as well?” Her eyes lingered on the tattoo on my arm, a crude eagle with wings spread and beak open in a cry of triumph. I’d had her inked into my flesh after the Dacian triumph.

“My mother is a Jew,” I confessed, aware that a number of cousins and uncles were listening.

“Then so are you,” she said firmly, and that was that.

I think I expected something exotic from a Jewish household. Several legionaries I knew in the Tenth had served in Judaea, and they did a good deal of dark muttering about that hot place with its hot-tempered people—though I discounted the wilder rumors like the one that Jews cut the pricks off their baby boys as soon as they were born. Still, I’d expected something different, something eastern and exotic. But Simon’s family, once you got used to the sheer number of them, seemed much like any other Roman family I’d dined with over the years. The house was the same, built around the hollow square of the atrium; the airy triclinium was the same with its stylized friezes of grapes and urns about the walls; the freedmen servants who took my cloak were the same. Perhaps more of the men were bearded, and the women tended to cover their hair with bright scarves, but otherwise they looked no different from any prosperous Roman family.

Still, I couldn’t help but see a division. I was shown to a place of honor at the table, but the various wizened aunts and grandmothers regarded me as if I’d come from another species, and the children stared like my head was sprouting antlers. A squirming little boy pointed at me and was quickly hushed by the pretty girl Simon had introduced as his niece. Her eyes met mine but dropped at once like any good girl’s. I hadn’t had much dealing with good girls in the past years, just the cheerful rough-voiced legion wives and the friendly German whores whose time I bought in Mog.

The couches were drawn up in an arch as at any common dinner party, though there were places for the children, which wouldn’t have happened in most Roman homes. Servants came around the couches with wine and platters of food; I started to reach for the bread, but Simon nudged me and I realized his mother was intoning some prayer in Hebrew and doing something ceremonial with candles. I bowed my head hastily, but the prayer was short.