by Crystal King
But it was the counters that made me gasp. They were made of high-grade porphyry that glistened with a red shine. Seeing the precious stone made me stop in my tracks. How much would the cooking classes have to cost in order to make a difference in paying for building the school? Would they be able to? I didn’t think they would.
“Well? Do you like what you see?” Apicius asked me again.
“Yes,” I said, but I was torn between glee and despair. What would happen if I could not make it viable? What sort of new trick had the gods played on me?
I walked to the first station and placed my hand flat upon the surface of the shiny stone.
“Look.” Apicius moved past me to a series of shelves on the wall. He pulled down a basket of knives, spoons, and other kitchen utensils. “And look over there.” He waved a hand at another row of shelves.
I still didn’t know what to say so instead I walked across the tiled floor to reach the shelves. Three slaves rushed to help me reach the higher shelves, upon which were dozens of sets of serving ware, silver platters, glasses, and plates.
Apicius let me look only briefly before ushering me toward a central door along the side of the kitchen. He opened it to reveal a massive banquet hall with a multitude of dining couches, some for seating as many as eighteen people.
I gaped. “This rivals anything Caesar could imagine!”
“Shhh, you might insult Publius Octavius!” Apicius chuckled.
“I don’t know what to say, Dominus. It is truly magnificent.” I ran my fingers along the door frame. The plaster was intricately shaped with small birds carrying grapes and berries in their beaks.
“Say nothing. Instead, start planning for your first class.” Apicius motioned for the slaves to close the banquet door. He turned to leave.
I started after him. “Dominus, when will the first class be? How will people know? What should I charge?” The words came out in a rush.
All trace of amusement was gone from his eyes. “Next week. We will tell our clients first and they will help us build a following. You will charge each student ten denarii for four classes a week.”
“Ten denarii?” I stammered, unable to believe the paltry cost Apicius was asking. “Dominus, I mean no disrespect, but how can we recoup the building costs if we don’t charge higher fees?”
“That is of no consequence,” Apicius muttered. “What we want, Thrasius, is students, as many students as possible. I want households all over Rome cooking my food.” His pace quickened and I had to jog to keep up with him. Apicius stopped when he reached the door to the front gardens, where Sotas waited.
“You’ll find a furnished apartment on the second floor if you should choose to stay here some nights.” He nodded at Sotas, who pulled a thick bronze ring with a short extruding key off his finger and handed it to me.
“I still want you to advise me on affairs at the domus, however,” Apicius continued. “I expect to see you every morning and for you to be there on days when you do not have classes. Come to me in two days with your plan for the school and together we will inform my clients.”
I couldn’t speak. The smile returned to his face and Apicius clapped me on the back. “Familiarize yourself with the school now but I expect to see you at the domus for tonight’s celebration. This is a glorious day, Thrasius! The gods are smiling on me!”
“Yes, Dominus. Thank you. I will be there.” I hoped I sounded sincere. Sotas smirked at me. He knew my mind. I slipped the key ring onto my ring finger but it was too big. I tried my thumb and it fit, but barely. I would have to find a cord to wear it around my neck or with which to tie it to my belt.
“Good! I will see you tonight.” Apicius waved to Sotas and turned to leave.
I watched the door slaves close the doors after my master left. I put my hands down on the gorgeous, cool red counter. I wanted to laugh nearly as much as I wanted to cry. Running a kitchen was one thing, but, oh dear gods, a cooking school? The students, the lesson planning, the ordering of ingredients, the promotion of the school to the world. The amount of work ahead of me was more than I wanted to think about.
• • •
The school was initially successful. I decided I would start with a series of classes on sauces, on preparing fowl, and on planning and organizing small cenae. They filled instantly. Apicius’s clients were desperate to have their slaves learn how to serve such incredible food. We turned many hopefuls away at the door the first month. I had several stops and starts, but after the first week I started to settle into a comfortable pace.
We also decided to hold a few large banquets to help teach students how to run them successfully. Initially, I tried to staff these events using only students from the cooking school, but it took only one disastrous banquet for that to change.
It was the third feast we hosted at the school. The first two banquets were well attended by many of Rome’s most prominent families, despite caveats that the cenae were for teaching purposes and ensuring quality and service would be near impossible, especially on the level some of the attendees were accustomed to.
On that night, Herod Agrippa, the future king of the Jews, and a friend to Tiberius’s son, Drusus, was in attendance. I had not been informed that he would be a guest, and the majority of the food that was served he couldn’t eat.
Tycho brought the first dish back to me, a platter of pork meatballs. “Herod Agrippa can’t eat this, Coquus.” One of the other boys appeared behind him with a bowl of pork stew.
“Or this,” he added, setting the bowl down with the other dirty dishes.
“What can he eat?” Tycho asked me. Over the last few years, he had gone from being a simple serving boy to my trusted attendant. At seventeen, he was no longer the cherub who used to flit about Apicius’s courtyard. Now he had a scruff of beard and dark curls framing his golden face.
I thought about the menu. “He should be able to have the Numidian chicken. And maybe the beets. Make sure they are brought out to him right away.”
A short time later, one of the serving girls came running into the kitchen, tears streaming down her face.
“What is wrong, girl?” I asked after she had collapsed onto a stool in the corner of the kitchen, cradling her face in her hands. She sobbed, choking on her words. “I spilled wine on Prince Herod.” Blood ran from a split lip, hindering her speech even further. “Drusus was angry and hit me.”
I swore. I left the girl there and rushed out to the triclinium with a fresh carafe of wine and a clean towel.
I bowed when I drew near. “Prince Herod, I heard what happened. I have brought you a towel and fresh wine.”
The prince smiled at me, his dark eyes shining. “Thank you,” he said, taking the towel. I poured the wine, careful not to spill a drop. He had the smallest circle of wetness on his sleeve.
“Are you the coquus?” Drusus asked me.
I bowed. “I am.”
“Your cenae are renowned through Italy. What went wrong tonight? I have been humiliated in front of my friend.” His voice held a dark warning in its tone. Drusus was long rumored to have a terrible temper.
“I give you my deepest apologies. This is a school, Dominus. Many of our students are still learning how to serve with the finesse that someone of your illustrious stature deserves.” I prayed to Pax that my flattery would keep him calm.
Herod put a hand on Drusus’s arm to still him. “Now I understand, my friend. We should be patient with these slaves. They will learn from their mistakes if we school them on how to improve.”
Color had risen to Drusus’s cheeks. He was furious. I spoke before he could.
“Thank you for the kindness. I am having some chicken sent out to the table in a few minutes.”
Herod nodded his approval, then abruptly changed the topic of conversation with Drusus, asking him about one of our Roman customs. I backed away from the table. When I reached the kitchen, I saw that the Numidian chicken was ready to be delivered.
The skin was not as dar
k as I would have liked. I stopped Tycho before he was to take the chicken to the table and asked him to check it for doneness. I watched as he took a knife to the leg and separated it from the chicken’s body. The juice did not run clear.
I thanked Jupiter for watching over me and sent the chicken back to cook a few minutes more. Under no circumstance would I allow another mishap that day.
• • •
“You should have them all whipped!” Apicius raged that night after the feast when he heard what had happened.
“Dominus, these are slaves owned by others,” I argued. He was within his rights to have the slaves disciplined in the way he desired as they were acting on his behalf and on his property, but there were political ramifications he had not considered, which I tried to explain.
“What about the fact that I was embarrassed in front of a man whom Tiberius has taken under his wing? He dotes on Herod as if he were his own son and we treated him as though he were garbage, giving him bad food and throwing wine all over him. My reputation has been sullied by these students!”
“Herod Agrippa was very understanding. He was very kind to the servants, knowing that they were there to learn.”
Apicius’s jaw was set. “Fix this, Thrasius. If this ever happens again, it will be you who are whipped within an inch of his life. I will not be embarrassed by you, or by the students of this school.” He stormed out of the room and I collapsed into the chair behind me, grateful that he hadn’t decided to punish me there and then.
From that point on, I brought in slaves from Apicius’s villa to help the students during feasts.
• • •
After several months of classes, when I thought most of the major problems of the school had been overcome, a new challenge emerged. I began to suspect that one of the students might be a spy for Publius Octavius. He was a freedman who took to disrupting courses by asking frivolous questions, being belligerent, and provoking or belittling me in class. I did my best to be patient.
In the end, I sent for Tycho. I gave him instructions to follow the troublemaker after class that day and report back to me and Apicius.
I hoped that the man wouldn’t show up for my class on cooking grains and cereals but, sure enough, there he was, at his usual station in the front. My resolve hardened.
The students gathered close to my counter. “Today we will learn how to make several different lentil and pea dishes. I’ll demonstrate, then you’ll make your own.” I picked up a large terra-cotta jar and removed the lid to show it was filled with fresh lentils. I scooped out a few handfuls and added them to the bronze pan in front of me. I added a little water and took in my fingers a bit of white powder from a tiny jar I kept on the side of the counter. I raised my voice so the students could hear me over the sizzle of the water hitting the pan. “Add a pinch of soda and some water, then set it on a low fire to cook.” I stirred the mixture around before setting the pan on the fire. I waited as the students took notes on their wax tablets.
It wasn’t long until the troublemaker spoke up and began to harangue me with questions. Fed up, I kicked him out of the class, despite his protests about how his patron was going to be furious with me and with Gavius Apicius. I nodded at Tycho and he set out to follow the man, as I had instructed him to.
• • •
That evening, back on the Palatine, Apicius and I were going over notes for the sauce book when Sotas ushered Tycho into the room.
“What did you find out?”
“I tracked him to the domus of Publius Octavius.”
“Damn him to Tartarus!” Apicius stormed across the room to the window and slammed his hand against its edge. “How dare he?”
He stared down at the dimly lit Forum below. “How many of those shadowy figures in the streets are spies of Publius Octavius? Will I never be rid of him?” He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and seemed to collect himself. He considered Tycho, who was standing near the door, a look of abject terror on his face. “Boy, Thrasius will see to it that you receive an additional fifty denarii added to your peculium.”
I inhaled sharply at the same time as Tycho.
Apicius continued, “Now go. Tell no one of this or I’ll take back the money and beat you within a heartbeat of your life.”
Tycho nodded vigorously and bumped into Sotas as he tried to back out of the room. The big man let the youth go and watched him run down the hallway beyond.
Apicius turned to look out the window again. He tapped the sill with his fingers, drumming them in thought. “So Publius Octavius wanted my recipes but couldn’t bear to let me know that he was sending a slave. No more niceties from me.” He raised his voice but did not turn around. “Thrasius, tomorrow you will throw that spy out. Tell him his master can take up any grievances with me personally—which I doubt will happen. And moving forward, we will not accept any student into the school unless I have met the patrician who is sending him.”
“Yes, Dominus.”
CHAPTER 15
That year I finally finished the book of sauces. Between the school and Apicius’s ever-growing entertainment schedule, we barely had time to breathe, much less test all the recipes to make sure there were no errors. We hired several scribes to help us make copies, expecting it would sell well. I assumed most of my students would ask their masters to purchase a copy for them. Fannia had also spread the word to her friends. We also sent a copy to Ovid, who had been recently exiled to the isle of Tomis for writing a poem that supposedly incited Augustus’s daughter, Julia, to plot to overthrow her father. Despite his banishment, Ovid’s influence was strong, especially among wealthy families in the pleasure towns along the coast. He told us he wrote many letters to friends in far-flung places and we should expect requests for copies. Apicius, of course, planned on giving many of his clients scrolls for free. Doing so made him feel generous but it didn’t pad the coffers.
At least there was no sign of Sejanus. I often forgot about him for weeks at a time. Every once in a while we would hear word of him conquering some Germanic tribe or another, but there had been no direct reports of him. I held hope that such news would arrive on a cart containing his coffin. But no such luck.
• • •
A few weeks before the annual Saturnalia festival at the end of December, I steeled myself to go ask Dominus Apicius for a large favor—to marry Passia. It was bold. While formalizing marriage among slaves was common in many households, Apicius had not previously condoned the practice. Or was it that no one had ever dared to ask? I tried to look at the sunlight side of the situation—that I was in good standing with him, and more and more he treated me almost as a friend, if a man like him could have a friend. He did not think of me as he did the other slaves and he didn’t treat me the same. As he grew older he became crueler to his household slaves but kinder to me. He regarded my opinions as valuable and gave generously toward my peculium. But never did he speak of my future unless it entwined with his own.
I was very nervous on the day I went to Apicius. I hadn’t asked him for anything in the ten years since I joined the household, and because of that, I was doubly unsure of how he would react. I paused outside the massive library doors and wiped my brow of sweat. I was saying a prayer to the gods when Apicius spoke.
His voice was wary. “Who’s there?” He must have heard the shuffle of my sandals outside the door.
Sotas poked his head out and waved me in. I willed myself to move forward and enter the room. “It is I, Dominus.”
Apicius stood. I was worried he might be in a foul mood, as he often seemed to be in those days, but he was jovial. “Just the man I wanted to see. Sit and tell me of the school!” He indicated the ornate beechwood chair across from the desk where he sat.
“You are teaching classes on Saturnalia banquets, correct?” he asked as I eased myself into the chair. I curled my hands around the carved lion’s paws of its arms and forced myself to smile. The candelabras sputtered as a slight breeze flitted through the window.
“Yes, Dominus. We have more students in this week’s classes than last. But shouldn’t it be the patricians who come to my Saturnalia classes?” I joked, referring to the ages-old custom of masters and slaves switching places during the weeklong festival.
Apicius smirked, but not unkindly, to my relief. “Possibly. But I doubt my slaves will want to eat the food I make! They are used to your fine fare.”
He cocked his head, taking greater notice of me. “But that’s not why you came here, is it, Thrasius? You are sweating, my boy. Out with it, what is troubling you?”
I froze. I had hoped to ease myself into the question, to gauge how Apicius was feeling and then take the plunge.
“I, uh . . .”
Apicius seemed more concerned than angry. “Thrasius, this is unlike you. Tell me, what is wrong?”
In my nervousness it all spilled out.
“Dominus, I have never asked you for anything, and I know what I am asking might be too much, but, please, consider my request. It has been eight years and I . . . I want to marry Passia.”
Apicius opened his mouth to speak but before a sound slipped past the bar of his teeth, Aelia’s voice cut through the awkwardness.
“Why, yes, Thrasius! Yes, you must marry that girl! I’ll help plan the wedding!” My mistress swept into the room, her peacock blue stola fluttering around her. She came up behind me, hugged me tight, and addressed Apicius. “Of course he must marry her, am I right, dear husband?” The look in her eyes warned Apicius that he dare not say no. Oh, how I loved Aelia in that moment! Her gesture was one of the kindest anyone had ever made toward me.
Apicius wrinkled his brow as though he were deciding whether to be angry. He shifted the scroll beneath his hands. The silence was unbearable.
Finally, he spoke, but did not look up. “No, Thrasius. I must say no. You may not marry her.”
My breath caught in my throat. An hour ago I had prepared myself to be disappointed, but in the moment, hope had won out when Aelia spoke on my behalf. And now his refusal was like a vise on my heart.