by Crystal King
“I know some people are opposed to educated slaves. . . .” Aelia leaned forward on the couch. Her eyes flickered toward the edge of my tunic, which I was twisting nervously in my hands. I stopped the twisting and sat up straighter, determined not to let my nervousness show through. She continued, “But I agree with Maximus’s way. There are many advantages to schooling every member of the household. I suspect Rúan can teach you a bit of Celtic. He’s from that island just off of Britannia.”
Octavius plucked off the tail of his pig and waved it at me. “So he is Hibernian? Ha! Well, then, Thrasius, I imagine he could teach you how to be pretty fierce as well!”
Octavius was at least twice the age of his wife, with graying hair and a paunch that was evident despite the folds of his toga. “What a wonder it would have been to see such a creature painted blue with that mess of red hair coming at you, spear in hand!” His wife giggled a soft, girlish laugh. She herself wore a red wig, but red was a common color for wigs. To see someone like Rúan with naturally red hair was quite unusual. I imagined it was often a subject of conversation at Apicius’s parties.
“I don’t think he ever wore paint or carried a spear,” Aelia reprimanded with a smile. “He came to my family when he was just a boy. His father may have worn the blue war marks but Rúan was too young.”
“You have a bunch of youths running your kitchen, it seems, Apicius. How honed can this boy’s sense of taste be?” Octavius’s question cut through the laughter.
I looked up, then back down to the lion carving. “I might be young, but cooking has always come easily to me,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t waver. I raised my eyes again, but not my head. “I have always had an intense palate. When flavors blend well, it is like harmony in the mouth. I think about how the components can come together to make each dish sing.”
Fannia murmured in approval but Octavius wasn’t impressed.
“Did you think that the abundance of sand in my oyster would make my dish sing?” He turned to Apicius. “If you like, I can send my cook, Herakles, over to show your slave how to properly shuck them. Even Caesar has commented on the skills of my coquus. I think that Corvinus himself is jealous of Herakles’s skills.”
I didn’t know who Corvinus was and I didn’t care. But he was lying about the sand. I had inspected each oyster myself.
“A thousand pardons,” I said, my voice quavering and my blood boiling.
Apicius began to speak but his wife interjected. “Oh, Octavius, it was just a mistake. My mistake, in fact,” Aelia said. What in Jupiter’s name was she doing?
“Apicius, dear husband, I was in the kitchen this evening and I fear that it was I who distracted the poor boy preparing the oysters. He must have missed one when I was talking to him.”
Octavius squinted at me. “Slave, wouldn’t you have inspected each oyster before it went out?”
I opened my mouth but Aelia again came to my rescue. “He intended to, but in the interest of expediency, I told Thrasius that I had looked them over and then I had the boy put them in the snow room. We have not had him long but I imagine he wouldn’t dare disobey me, would you, Thrasius?”
“No, Domina.”
“Good. Please send out some new oysters for dear Octavius. We mustn’t have him leave unhappy.”
“No, no, do not concern yourself,” Octavius said, his jowls shaking. “I’ll be fine.”
Aelia winked at me and Apicius dismissed me with a small wave of his hand.
I was disconcerted when I left, and was several paces away before I realized I had gone in the wrong direction. Sotas tsked softly when my error took me close to his post near the door. He waved me over to him.
“Thank the gods for Aelia!” he said, leaning down so I could hear.
“Is that man always so unbearable?” I watched as Octavius licked his fat fingers of ham sauce.
“Always. And he knows what to say to get under everyone’s skin. That mention of Corvinus, for example. He has the post that Apicius wants—cultural and gastronomic adviser to Caesar.”
“I see.”
“Clearly you made Octavius nervous or he wouldn’t have made that jab. Look at Apicius. You can still see the irritation on his brow.”
I turned my attention to my master. He did seem to be brooding, saying very little while his guests chatted around him.
“I’ve heard all the ways that Dominus would like to rid the world of Octavius—dumping him in boiling water, slashing his neck with a dagger in a dark alley, infusing his wine with oleander. The list is endless. I’m sure you’ll get a sense of it soon enough.”
Aelia’s body-slave was perched on the edge of a huge flowerpot between us and the diners. She paused for a drink of water and then picked up the lyre once again. Sotas smiled in her direction. “That’s Helene,” he said simply, but longing was evident in his voice. I changed the subject.
“I’ve not met a body-slave as well spoken as you. Where are you from?”
He paused for a moment, as though considering if I were worth the story. “I’m Egyptian,” he finally said, confirming my suspicion. “My father died before I was born and my mother was forced to sell me into slavery when she could no longer afford to feed me. Apicius’s father bought me and brought me to Rome. He had me trained for several years to be a body-slave to Apicius. I was educated, much like you seem to be.”
“Do you advise him?”
“Sometimes. But I’m not his adviser.”
Something about his manner said he wasn’t interested in continuing that line of conversation. I looked back at the diners. “Why does Dominus Apicius dislike Octavius?”
Sotas snorted, his massive chest lifting with the gesture. “Dominus met him six years ago, when Octavius was summering in Minturnae. Octavius took him under his wing, teaching him about politics, parties, and Rome. He’s the one who convinced Apicius to buy the villa here in Baiae, where he could meet influential Romans who came down for vacation. Octavius was a mentor at first, but over time he became ambitious and jealous, acting more as a rival than a friend. He’s an arrogant, name-dropping fool. Fannia keeps telling Dominus to stop inviting him over, but I know that he won’t. He will keep him close.”
That surprised me. “Fannia tells him what to do?”
“Yes. Fannia Drusilla has been like a surrogate mother to Apicius since he was ten years old. She used to live next door to the Gavii in Minturnae. Dominus never saw much of his father and, well, when you get to know Popilla, you’ll understand why the two of them aren’t close.”
“Do Popilla and Fannia get along?”
“Ha!” Sotas scoffed. “No, Fannia and Popilla are always going at it. Apicius never listens to Popilla. It’s one reason Popilla has become such a bitter old shrew. She is constantly vying for her son’s attention.” He tilted his head in their direction.
Apicius’s voice rose as he became more animated. “Fannia, remember the time when Mother held that big cena for Consul Calpurnius Piso?” He patted Popilla on the shoulder in a bit of lighthearted, but obvious, pity. Popilla shrugged his hand off. Her eyes were black and hard.
“Yes! That cena was a shipwreck,” Fannia teased Popilla. “Poor dear, you didn’t know the first thing about throwing a dinner party. The wine was plonk from Surrentine, the shrimp were tough, and you didn’t even serve a gustatio to start the guests out!” Fannia waved her spoon as she spoke. “I had to take things into my own hands for the next party! Thank the gods Apicius was a quick study!”
Popilla seethed, concentrating on the plate before her, scooping up tidbits of ham and pastry with her fingers. Her would-be suitor had shifted a few more inches away from her over the course of the conversation.
When Popilla spoke, it was to pose a barbed question to Fannia. “Where is Pulcher this evening?”
Popilla’s question left a sheen of tension in the air as thick as a temple curtain. Celera drew in an audible breath and Apicius seemed to bristle. Fannia was the only one who seemed unperturbed. “
Pulcher is in Macedonia negotiating a new trade line of wine.” She turned to Apicius.
“Would you like me to put in an order for a few amphorae of the latest vintage? I imagine you have room in one of your cellars.”
Popilla delivered her own perfect, hemlock-edged smile. “You and Pulcher make such a sweet couple. I imagine you miss him very much. Will he be home in time for the Saturnalia festival?”
A large flock of seagulls flew overhead with a raucous noise, turning the diners’ attention away from Popilla’s question. Excited conversation broke out as the guests tried to contemplate what the sign meant. Popilla looked so angry at the distraction, I thought she might burst.
Sotas chuckled softly next to me. “Serves the old witch right.”
“Who’s Pulcher?”
“Fannia’s new husband, Quintus Claudius Pulcher. Her first husband died a few years ago and recently Fannia was forced to marry Pulcher by her cousin, Livia. You know, Caesar’s wife?”
I coughed with surprise.
“Yes, that Livia,” Sotas continued. “When Livia was made to divorce Tiberius Claudius Nero in favor of Caesar Augustus, she was more devastated than most would guess. Especially when Fannia started sleeping with her ex-husband.”
“I imagine that would make Livia a little angry.”
“Quite angry. She and Fannia used to be close until that happened so the betrayal was even more of an affront. There was no proof, only widespread rumors from her slaves, so Livia had to be creative in her revenge. You know that rule, the one Caesar put in place that men and women need to be married?”
“Yes, I know it. Dumb rule, in my opinion.”
“Most would agree with you. At any rate, Livia suggested to Caesar that Fannia marry Pulcher, and Caesar made it so.”
I saw Rúan appear at the doorway on the other side of the triclinium. He saw me and waved his arms.
“What’s so bad about Pulcher?” I asked, knowing I should go but wanting to hear the rest of the strange tale.
“When Fannia was young, Pulcher’s family and Fannia’s were once close and often vacationed together. Rumor has it that on one of those shared holidays, someone raped and strangled Fannia’s older sister and dumped her body into a fountain. There was no proof but Fannia has always sworn it was Pulcher.
“Jump forward fifteen years and Fannia, who was newly widowed, makes the mistake of sleeping with Livia’s ex-husband. Livia was furious. She bided her time and when Pulcher’s wife died, she exacted her revenge and made sure Fannia was the one to remarry Pulcher. The one thing that Livia didn’t count on was that Pulcher is always traveling, meaning that Fannia barely sees her husband. They despise each other and he stays far away.”
The sun had set and the last red and pink streaks had begun to fade over the distant ocean. Apicius snapped his fingers at one of the slave boys to light the lamps.
“Go back through the house.” Sotas jerked his head toward the hallway behind him. “That way you don’t have to cross in view of everyone.”
I nodded and slipped behind him toward the corridor. There was a cluster of boys playing dice in the hall.
“You! Tycho! Now! Go light the lamps!” Behind me Sotas’s voice was low but cutting. A young boy about the age of seven, with a mop of dark curly hair, rushed forward while the other boys followed him to illuminate the diners.
I stopped one of the boys before he could get far and had him guide me through the halls back to the kitchen, where Rúan was frantic, wondering if the next course should go out. It would have been just my luck if I had gotten lost in the labyrinth of corridors in the domus.
The rest of the evening passed almost without incident. Apicius did not notice the missing glasses, Octavius begrudgingly agreed that the meal was delicious, and Popilla excused herself early because she was “tired.”
When the last of the meal was delivered and the wine was opened up, I leaned on the doorway and watched the plates of olives, grapes, fine cheeses, and honeyed almonds go out to the guests.
Apicius was talking with Trio and his wife, Celera. Celera reached for the just-delivered morels in wine. “When are you coming to Rome?” she asked Apicius.
“Not just yet,” said my new dominus. “I think we want to wait a couple of years until Apicata is older.”
The corners of Octavius’s mouth curled upward slightly. I thought it interesting that he was pleased Apicius would not be coming to Rome anytime soon.
“Besides, look at this view!” Aelia extended her hand toward the darkly glittering sea. “Why would we want to give this up? Even if I had a house in Rome, I would still want to be here!”
“True, true,” conceded Trio. “However, there is much to be said about Rome. The people, the parties, and, oh, the games! You must visit soon and we’ll take you to the races, or to see the gladiators! There is no finer sport than watching the gladiators!”
“I care little for the gladiators.” Aelia wrinkled her nose. “So barbarous!”
“Ahh, but I bet you might like the meat!”
She opened her mouth in a horrified O. “From the gladiators?”
The group broke out laughing.
“No, no! From the animals!”
My interest was piqued. What I wouldn’t give for some of the rare meat distributed after a match! Meat from bears, tigers, rhinoceros, and other exotic animals killed in the height of battle was highly prized due to the heated blood that ran through the veins when the beast perished. I wanted the chance to serve up such delicacies.
“I have an in with the right people at the games,” Octavius bragged.
“Of course you do,” Apicius said dismissively. “Trio, do you go to the games often?”
“I do! If you come to Rome I can promise you excellent seats, not far from Livia and Augustus!”
Apicius smiled widely at his Roman friend, ignoring Fannia’s small groan of derision at the mention of her cousin’s name. “I would love to go to the games with you, Trio. I would absolutely love to.”
“All this heavy food has made me weary,” Octavius said loudly, interjecting himself into the conversation. To me he didn’t look weary, only bored.
His body-slave rushed forward to help Octavius off the couch. He took his leave of the party and Sotas stepped forward to escort him out of the house. Before he left he turned his head to where I stood in the kitchen doorway. Subtly, so that Apicius and the rest of the dining guests could not see, he raised his hand slightly and gave me a one-finger salute. I instinctively tucked my body back into the kitchen, and quickly sent a prayer off to Jupiter, for protection from that terrible envy, Invidia.
When I glanced back, he was gone. My heart hammered within my chest. I had only just met the man but already he felt angered and threatened by me. It seemed the rivalry between Apicius and Octavius was deeper than Sotas had let on.
PART II
1 C.E. to 2 C.E.
PEACOCK MEATBALLS
Peacock meatballs rank in the first place, provided they are fried until they burst their skins. Pheasant meatballs rank in the second place, then rabbit third, then chicken fourth, and tender young pork ones are fifth.
—Book 2.2.6, Meat Dishes
On Cookery, Apicius
CHAPTER 4
We didn’t see Octavius much in the following years. He went to Rome, where he quickly climbed the patrician ranks, which irked my master to no end. But I had a bigger concern—Popilla. She took every opportunity to make my life miserable.
She kept the worst of her torments for when Apicius was not around. She was fond of having her lackey, a burly house guard whose name I never learned, administer the lash.
Seven months after my purchase, Apicius went to his villa in Minturnae for a few days. On the fifth day he was gone, Popilla decided that I did not add enough garum to a dish of lamb.
“This is the most miserable piece of meat I have ever eaten!” she screamed, picking up the pieces on her plate and flinging them across the triclinium. The scisso
r slave who had been cutting up her meat backed away and cowered in the corner.
I stood in the corridor ready to send in my serving boy, Tycho, with the next course. At her scream, little Tycho tilted the plate of mustard beans he was carrying and they skittered in slimy trails all over the floor. He immediately burst into tears, terrified of the beating he might receive. I took the plate from his hand.
“Back to the kitchen, hurry,” I said, just loud enough for him to hear. I did not want him to be the one to receive the lash.
I stepped around him and entered the room, wondering if this night would be my last. Each day of Apicius’s absence Popilla had grown even bolder.
“You! Not only are you a terrible coquus but you are a clumsy oaf too! You can’t even hold a plate steady. Are your hands broken? No? Perhaps if they were you would have an excuse for your mediocrity!”
I saw her chin jerk toward her guard and next thing I knew I felt the lash upon my back. The plate crashed to the ground, and when I fell, the terra-cotta shards tore into the skin of my chin and chest. The guard kicked me. I felt the lash tear into my back again and the world swam for a second, then went black.
I did not see or hear what happened next, but, fortunately for me, and for my hands, Apicius had come home early. A screaming match ensued as well as a few brutal slaps to Popilla’s harpy face. Rúan told me about it the next day when he came to see me as I lay curled on my pallet, bruised and sporting many cuts that would turn to scars. It was a week before I could return to the kitchen. I hated Popilla more than I had ever hated anyone and I wished every day for her disappearance from the earth.
• • •
Aside from the troubles with Popilla, my time in Apicius’s kitchen passed as fast as an eastern wind over the ocean. My work was hard but I felt very alive then, more so than I ever had. Rúan and I became fast friends and his presence by my side at each meal was part of my early success. We seemed to inherently understand each other and his love of cooking was surpassed only by mine. Some of my most classic dishes were developed with his collaboration.