by Crystal King
“Prokopton, are you sure about that gift?” I asked, looking up at him.
The merchant’s plump cheeks reddened. “I am. It was my wife’s. I have no children to pass it on to. Please remind her of me when she grows. I will be sad not to see her every week.”
I left Apicata with Prokopton so I could say farewell to other merchants I frequented. The market was still coming to life and each stall in the large two-storied building was in a varied state of preparation. In the central atrium, a young slave girl sorted baskets of flowers into pretty arrangements. The smells of sausages and melted cheese tickled my nose as I passed by the food stalls. Chickens ran underfoot and dogs slept on the tiles, not caring that they were being stepped over. I made my rounds and said my good-byes, some of them tearful on the part of the shopkeepers. I would miss the market of Baiae, busy and varied but not so big that I didn’t know most of the people who worked there. Rome would not be so comfortable.
On my return, I found myself walking behind a small cluster of drunkards, not an unusual sight in Baiae in the summer. Baiae was well known for its festival atmosphere and many came down from Rome to take part in the carefree lifestyle.
There were three nobles, still in their fine evening wear, and two prostitutes, identifiable by their cheap wigs and overdone makeup. It was likely they had been up all night in wine-infused orgiastic bliss and were now looking to find an open popina to serve up breakfast.
My ears perked up when I heard the tallest man speak.
“Look at that sweet girl.” He motioned down the street to where Apicata sat on a bench playing with her bird. Prokopton was tacking bolts of silk on the shelves next to where she sat. “What I wouldn’t give to break that little girl! She would tremble beneath me and learn to beg for more! Come now, let’s look closer!” His friends laughed, one of them stumbling in his mirth and almost pulling one of the women to the ground. She helped her companion right himself and the group ambled their way toward Prokopton’s stall.
Heat rose to my face. Rage infused me but I dared not act. I was a slave and there were consequences. Relations with children happened from time to time but such effrontery toward a child of the nobility was beneath any refined Roman. Apicata was clearly not a slave child; her dress and style of hair easily marked her as a member of the upper class. She was not to be used or given to anyone other than by her father. If a slave made lecherous comments toward a patrician’s child, he could be put to death.
I raced ahead to reach Apicata before the drunkards did. I swooped Apicata up and wrapped her in a dark brown shawl from a nearby shelf. I did not want her ogled any longer nor did I want her to see what was happening. I shushed her worried questions and protests that I was crushing her bird, breathlessly telling Prokopton the story. Prokopton, a freeman, had far more leeway than I did when it came to protecting the honor of the girl.
The drunkards arrived at the stall, stumbling and laughing. Prokopton looked the group over as he leaned casually with one hand against the handle of a well-worn ax. I knew Prokopton was ready to use it if need be.
“I think it would be best for the lot of you to keep moving,” he growled.
The man who’d first eyed Apicata had one arm draped across the shoulders of one of the whores, who had a chipped tooth and wore a cockeyed black wig. His blue eyes were a bleary red. He was what I supposed women would consider handsome. He had dark hair and a perfect Roman aquiline nose. The noble was in his midtwenties and his silk synthesis indicated he was a man of money. His mouth stretched into a drunken grin.
“We mean no harm,” he said to Prokopton. The scent of wine was heavy on his breath despite the fact that we stood several feet away. His voice was deep and rich and most likely he had seduced many women. “Is that your lovely daughter? We were remarking on what a pretty little thing she is.”
Prokopton started to speak but in my anger I cut him off and answered the man myself. “Any more remarks and you’ll be apologizing to Marcus Gavius Apicius yourself, on your knees begging for forgiveness for the lecherous insults you bestowed upon his child. You are not presenting your best face today, and I suggest you sober up and regain your honor.”
“You don’t say!” The man laughed, his dark hair falling away from his face as his head tilted back. “Apicius has a daughter! Well, well, that’s as much of a surprise as if Juno turned me into a cow.” He lurched toward me and I took a step back. Prokopton intervened, ready to use the ax.
The man started laughing but stopped abruptly when he saw the shine of Prokopton’s ax. “You are right, my good man! It’s best we be on our way. I will have to pay dear Marcus a visit soon!”
“He’s leaving for Rome. You missed your chance,” I lashed out. I was shocked at the audacity of the noble. Even Fannia didn’t casually use Apicius’s praenomen of Marcus. Only Aelia had the right to be so intimate. My heart was pounding. The last time I had experienced such rage was on the day Popilla had killed Vatia.
“Ahh, even better. I can look for him at leisure when I return to Rome myself!” He pulled his friends away, chuckling as he left us standing bewildered and enraged.
“Did you know him?” I asked Prokopton. I unwrapped Apicata from the shawl and set her down.
“Why did you have to cover me up? You hurt my bird!” Her voice was loud and I shushed her with a quick finger to her mouth.
Prokopton shook his head and came close enough to talk quietly without the girl overhearing. “Keep her safe.”
I wasn’t sure how someone in my station could do much of anything save cook a good meal. “I will try, my friend. I promise.”
• • •
We arrived back at the domus to find the house bustling with activity. Many of Apicius’s clients had arrived early and were loitering outside the gates, waiting for their patron to receive them. I pushed past them, ignoring questions about how long Apicius planned on keeping the tiny crowd waiting. Apicata had whined the entire way home, upset because we had to leave without honey ice and because I kept a pace her little legs could barely match. Once she tripped and almost crushed her wind-up. Despite her protests, I had to take the bird from her to keep it safe on the walk home.
Apicius was waiting in the vestibule, ready to receive his clients. He wore one of his best togas and in his hand he held a large scroll. He must have been going over the list of clients in my absence—something we usually did together before we opened the doors to welcome the many Baiae citizens who turned to Apicius for protection, advice, food, and favors.
Sotas sat on a bench on one side of the room. He sighed and shook his head when he saw me. It meant that Apicius was in a foul mood—the kind of mood where you didn’t want to go anywhere near him. I steeled myself for the worst.
“Where have you been?” Apicius scowled when he saw us. Then he saw Apicata’s reddened, tear-stained face. “By Ceres!” he said, invoking the goddess who looked after the Empire’s children. “Apicata! What is wrong?” He rushed to hug his daughter.
“Thrasius didn’t let me have any honey ice! He took away my bird and he made me run home!”
I handed the bird back to Apicata. She took it without looking at me and then buried her face in Apicius’s shoulder. Her tears blossomed up in full force, one of her best offensive moves. Apicius hated seeing his little girl cry. I groaned inwardly at the irony of the situation.
“There’d better be a good explanation for why you are late to the salutatio and why my daughter is upset,” Apicius said, looking up. His eyes betrayed his thoughts—a tempest raged within.
“There is.” I signaled with my head and eyes that I wanted Apicata to leave before I gave an explanation.
He pulled away from Apicata, wiped her cheeks with his fingers, and smoothed back her curls. “My sweet flower, go find your mother. She will want to see your new bird.”
Apicata brightened at the mention of showing off her new possession. She dutifully kissed her father on the cheek and ran out of the room.
He
turned his attention to me, arms crossed and brow knotted. He reminded me of lawyers I saw in the city, stern and demanding, waiting for but never believing the truth. I told him, the entire scene unfolding in front of me once more.
Apicius’s expression was unreadable, except when I mentioned that the man claimed to know him. Then a line of worry extended across my master’s brow. He made me describe the man in detail but, strangely, it made him even angrier than before I’d begun the story. I could see his fist curling into a ball inside the folds of his toga.
I finished my account and stood silently, waiting for my dominus’s response. When Apicius spoke, it was clear he was struggling to keep his temper in check. He paced back and forth in front of his receiving chair as he spoke. “You were late to the salutatio. My clients have been kept waiting. My daughter is upset. On top of all this you dare tell me a ridiculous story about a drunken equestrian in order to make up for your lateness?”
How could Apicius think I was lying?
“Dominus, I have always spoken truth. What would I have to gain from lying to you now?”
The wound of Apicius’s doubt pricked me deep beneath my breast. In the four years since my purchase I had been the model slave, truthful, dependable, and unwavering. Apicius was often disappointed in other slaves, but rarely did he seem displeased with me.
“To keep your reputation unblemished, I suspect. You knew how angry I would be that you were late for the salutatio and you wanted to escape my wrath! Out of all people, Thrasius, you know how important my last day in Baiae is!”
“But, Dominus! I swear on my life it’s true!”
Apicius sat in his receiving chair. He poked his finger at me. “We will speak of this no more. Punishment will be five lashes and you will walk with the house boys behind the carts—the entire way to Rome. You will also apologize to my daughter.” Spittle flew from his lips. When he finished his admonishment, he snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor next to his chair. “For now, stand here and advise me in today’s salutatio.” He gestured at Sotas to open the front doors.
Confused, I did as I was told without further complaint. I advised Apicius on all the clients who came to pay their respects, reminded him of names, suggested favors to ask such as recommendations to relatives in Rome, advised about the payments to poets and writers who might write and sing Apicius’s praises, and took note of those who hoped for an invite to the villa in Rome.
When the salutatio was over, Apicius made good on his promise, forcing me to submit to the whip.
Sotas strode to my side and took me by the shoulder. He squeezed me gently, and I knew that was his way of telling me he was sorry. He pushed me down until I was kneeling on the stones in front of Apicius. “Remove your tunic.”
I pulled it off and closed my eyes.
“Count them.” Apicius’s command was cold.
The first lash landed squarely on my shoulders and I let out a cry.
“I said, count them.”
“One,” I said, gritting my teeth.
“I couldn’t hear you. We’ll start again. Five lashes, Sotas.”
Sotas cracked the whip down against my skin again.
“One!” I felt the rush of warm blood trickling down my skin.
The whip landed again, and again. I counted, five times. I know that Sotas was as kind to me as he could be, but that did not diminish the pain—or my humiliation.
When it was over, Apicius rose. “We leave in an hour. I hope you packed an extra pair of sandals. You’ll need them.”
He strode from the room and I fell to the tiles, confused, angry, exhausted, and bloody, unable to rise for many minutes. “I’ll send Passia,” Sotas said, touching me on the head after Apicius turned away.
I lay there till Passia came, wondering how a day that started so beautifully could turn so sour.
CHAPTER 8
I was surprised at how much I liked Rome. I had thought that leaving Baiae behind would dampen my spirits but instead I found that the chaos of the city filled me with energy. The Palatine Hill was quieter than the other hills, filled with villas of enormous size surrounded by beautiful gardens and walkways. Below the Palatine was the famous Roman Forum, with its vast temples, shops, and city buildings. The Forum was the true life of the city. Everywhere one turned there was something new and amazing to see. People from all over the world came to live in Rome—or as slaves, had been forced to serve in Rome—and walking down the street it was not unusual to hear dozens of languages being spoken. I was particularly pleased about the markets, of which there were several, each with a specialty.
The first few months of our time in the new city was spent readying the house for upcoming banquets. Apicius had new triclinia made and designed every detail of those rooms to be as sumptuous and impressive as possible.
“I will have dozens of new clients in no time,” he said when he first surveyed the massive triclinium in the garden that would accommodate eighteen people. Since our arrival, Apicius had been obsessed with building his client base. In the city such connections were more important than ever, for protection, to procure influential votes, and to secure the right invites to the right parties. “And to recommend me to Caesar,” he added. “It won’t be long now, Thrasius.”
I did not share his confidence.
• • •
It was four months before we were ready to open the doors to guests of our first Roman cena. My master was delighted to be entertaining once more, but not all of his slaves were as enthusiastic.
“I don’t want to fight with you. Please, Balsamea. It’s such a small thing for me to ask.” I placed a white scarf on the table in front of her. Lately she had decided that she no longer wanted to pull her hair back.
“I like it the way I used to wear it, before you.” The aged slave stared at me.
I didn’t understand this new defiance of hers. Her age was catching up to her and of late her behavior had become more erratic. I tried a different tactic. “It’s a big night for Apicius and we’ve no time to waste. Don’t make me wish I had left you in Baiae.”
I was determined that this night would run smoothly. I pushed the scarf toward Balsamea once more.
Balsamea reluctantly reached for the cloth. “Dominus is fretting a bit overmuch,” she grumbled as she began pulling back her hair.
“I know. But he wants to make an impression.”
“By getting them all drunk? Some impression.”
I had to smile. “Everyone loves to get drunk, isn’t that true?”
“Not everyone loves to clean it up.” She looked at me square in the eye, a small warning that she would not be pleased if that was what she ended up doing. She knotted the scarf around her hair.
“Thank you.”
Balsamea grunted and returned to the task of weaving laurel leaves, roses, and hazel flowers into the many wreaths we would need for the evening.
I spent a few minutes directing other slaves preparing for that evening’s commissatio before taking up my own knife to chop up the bundles of lovage, dill, thyme, and sage. The aromas wafted up as I chopped and lost myself in the rapid slices of the knife.
I thought about the party ahead. I agreed with Balsamea’s concerns. At first, I was nervous about Apicius starting out in Rome with a drinking party instead of a traditional dinner. While imbibing was something of a pastime in the tourist town of Baiae, I assumed that Caesar Augustus’s austerity would hold more sway in Rome. But Apicius wanted to invite as many people as possible. He had many potential clients in Rome as well as a few of his own patrons. Narrowing down the guest list to nine or eighteen would have been nearly impossible. Not that it was difficult for me to change my mind once I started thinking of all the possibilities for the party.
We decided to hold a commissatio with wine and amusements, but also a special treat, a gustatio that would let visitors sample the dishes of which Apicius and I were particularly proud. While it was somewhat unheard of to mix the courses of wine and
food, eventually I was able to convince Apicius to serve small bites of food before the commissatio. My argument was that if the visitors sampled the dishes, Apicius would be able to gather clients and patrons who would look to future seats at his table. Apicius had agreed, especially after I explained how I would dress the young boys as cupids and the girls as nymphs. I made a sticky mock ambrosia cake from honey and apples, to be served by one of the prettiest slaves, dressed as a handmaiden to Venus. I hoped when people left they would be raving about both the atmosphere and the food.
“I came to go over the menu,” Apicius said, jolting me out of my thoughts. He was like an eager child just given a fresh plum. Sotas settled onto a stool near the door and raised a hand in greeting.
“Of course. I can make a variety of dishes and cut them up for easy sampling. I wanted to start with roasted hyacinth bulbs, some soft cheese drenched in raisin wine with bread, and slices of sow’s udder with garum and lovage. I thought we could serve the Lucanian sausage I made earlier this week. And remember my hard egg mice with the almond ears and the clove eyes? I think those might go over well.”
“Perfect! The mice will delight the ladies!” I was relieved to see he was in a good mood.
“What about those delicious fried hare livers you make? Send one of the boys to the market if you need hares.”
I pushed the cut herbs into a small bowl. “I can do that. What about the cabbage?”
At the mention of the cabbage, Sotas shifted in his chair and the scraping noise caused me to look over at the big slave. He waved his hand in front of his nose in disgust. I had to agree. Apicius had been obsessed with cabbage of late and had combed all of Rome for recipes I might test and modify. In the last months the two of us had cooked more cabbage than I ever cared to see—or smell—again. Plus, I wasn’t sure the ages-old belief that cabbage would prevent hangovers held any truth.
“Of course!” Apicius went to the vegetable baskets on the shelves and selected five cabbages.
Together we chopped up cabbage and discussed the wine service. “Who will you choose as rex bibendi?” I asked, wondering who Apicius had in mind for the honored position of Magister of Revels. The Magister was an important figure at any party, responsible for diluting the wine, leading the libation hymn, and watching the quantity of alcohol consumed by the guests, making sure no one got too much or too little. The Magister was also in charge of directing conversation, deciding if games got too out of hand—in short, keeping the peace. “You need someone who can be both merry and diplomatic in guiding the conversation.”