Feast of Sorrow

by Crystal King

  • • •

  The wedding prandium was an all-morning affair. The guests retired to couches in the atrium to eat the most elaborate breakfast I had ever devised. I couldn’t bear to sit with the crowd and instead helped Timon deliver course after course of dormice in honey, more spiced fritters, platter upon platter of fried anchovies, flatbreads with goat cheese and pepper, medallions of wild boar, and individual bowls of hazelnut custard. Each dish was served on a golden tray. The guests were given gold spoons and napkins dyed in Tyrian purple—lavish gifts they could take home. In between each course, barely clad serving girls showered the guests with rose petals and helped them wash their hands.

  It took three hours. I paid no attention to any conversation. Apicius was out of sorts as well, barking orders at me as though I were still his slave. I was grateful—I did not want a seat on the couches. I think Apicius was himself jealous that he could not join me in hiding in the heat of the kitchen.

  Apicata was stoic. The times when I glanced over to where she reclined she seemed neither happy nor sad. She offered up no conversation but politely responded when spoken to. She laughed in all the right places. I wished I could have whisked her away to Minturnae, turning back the clock to times when she was full of laughter, playing in the sand with her dog.

  Perseus rested on the floor near her feet. He was old now and walked with a limp. He would be heartbroken when he discovered he could not follow his mistress to her new home.

  The time came, all too soon. Sejanus and three of his friends, soldiers by the hardened looks of them, slipped out of the atrium and into the hall. I thought I recognized one of them from that day in the market so long ago. As they disappeared, three boys entered, nephews of Fannia’s, who would escort Apicata to her new home. They wore white togas belted with a red sash and, like the other guests, wreaths of laurel and marjoram. It was the part of the day I dreaded most of all—the traditional reenactment of the stealing of the Sabine brides.

  Sotas emerged from the house. In his hands was the spina alba, a torch that had been lit at the villa’s hearth and would be carried to Apicata’s new home. Sotas handed it to the tallest of the boys.

  At most weddings the procession was the most celebrated part of the event—everyone joined in the fun. I had no desire to do so at this wedding.

  The boys moved away from the door in time for Sejanus and his friends to return to the atrium in a loud rush, yelling and screaming war cries.

  Sejanus ran to the bridal couch and made to pull Apicata off the cushions and drag her away. Apicius and Aelia immediately locked their arms around their daughter to prevent the “kidnapping.” Apicata screamed.

  “Don’t take my daughter from me! Please, sir, don’t take my daughter!” Aelia shouted. The guests thought she was teasing, as she was supposed to be feigning resistance. It broke my heart to watch. Apicius joined in, “You can’t have her!” He had a mad look in his eye and there was a note of anger in his voice. Apicata stared at him in alarm, seemingly recognizing that perhaps her father did have misgivings. Sejanus’s friends pulled her parents away and then Apicata was in Sejanus’s arms.

  “No, don’t make me!” Apicata’s screams were shrill.

  The guests laughed. Everyone thought it was part of the play but I knew Apicata wasn’t playing.

  “Let go of me, you oaf!” She pushed Sejanus away and unwittingly fell into the arms of his friend, who offered her up to Sejanus. He snatched her up by the waist and picked her up. She beat her hands on his chest, hard enough that I could see his face contort with annoyance that she seemed to be taking the play act too far.

  He carried her out, flanked by Fannia’s nephews holding the hearth fire. The guests followed, filing out of the atrium and out of the house. Passia joined Aelia and Apicius in the procession, carrying the spindle and distaff symbolizing Apicata’s domestic role as Sejanus’s wife, who would keep him clothed. Sotas marched behind, his bald head bobbing above the crowd.

  I didn’t follow. I didn’t want to see the procession—how the guests would tease Apicata and Sejanus with lewd remarks as they went down the streets of the Palatine. I didn’t want to watch Apicata rub the doorway of Sejanus’s home with fat and oil, then wreath it in wool to demonstrate her place in the house as a homemaker. It pained me to think of her running that villa, thrust into the violent world. She was just a child!

  I didn’t want to see Sejanus carry her over the threshold, to see her touch fire and water, to see Aelia take her into Sejanus’s chamber to pray and undress her and offer sacrifice. I didn’t want to see Aelia leave the room and Sejanus enter. . . .

  PART VII

  13 C.E. to 14 C.E.

  MILK-FED SNAILS

  Take the snails, wipe them over with a sponge, take off their membranes so that they can come out (of their shells). Put them in a pot of milk and salt for the first day, and in milk alone for the remaining days, continually removing the waste matter. When they are so well fed that they cannot go back in their shells, pull them out and fry in some oil. Serve in oenogarum. They can also, in a similar way, be fed on porridge.

  —Book 7.16.1, Luxury Dishes

  On Cookery, Apicius

  CHAPTER 20

  It rained the day Apicius sent me to the immigrant section of Rome, the Trans Tiberim, a crowded part of the city with a mishmash of insulae and middle-class domus tumbled together along the Tiber. It was there, among the loud call of the butchers, bakers, laundries, and stone masons, that I found Glycon, the astrologer whom Fannia had recommended to Apicius.

  I waited, peering again over the railing to watch the children. I thought the whole escapade to be foolish. Fannia had been trying to get Apicius to hire Glycon for years and finally she had worn him down. In true Apicius style, and against my recommendation, he was eschewing the occasional visit that Fannia preferred and intended Glycon to live within the villa and be on hand for everyday consultations. I hoped that the astrologer would turn Apicius down. I believed in the stars, as anyone should, but found it hard to believe that someone who was not a devoted priest or priestess of a god could possibly know the path that those gods charted.

  Glycon lived on the fifth floor of an insula that couldn’t possibly have met the building codes designed to protect Rome against fire. As I climbed the wet, rickety stairs, I prayed to Neptune to protect me against an earthquake. I found it unlikely the building would stay upright if there were a tremor. I prayed the wood beneath me wouldn’t give way and drop me to my death.

  My destination was a door painted on the upper portion with a crude picture of the eye of Horus. A long coiled cobra was painted on the lower half. I pondered the symbols, wondering why Apicius had sent me on this fool’s errand. How he could believe in such nonsense was beyond me. I knocked.

  A long moment passed—enough time for me to peer over the edge of the railing. I was afraid to touch it for fear it would fall away. The rain had slowed to a fine mist. Despite the damp weather, several children played with an inflated calfskin ball in the muddy courtyard below.

  When the door opened, it was only a crack. “Yes?” said the voice, a woman’s. I couldn’t see anyone. Only a sliver of darkness greeted me through the crack in the door.

  “My name is Thrasius. I come on the request of Marcus Gavius Apicius, who requires the services of the astrologer Glycon.” I passed the thin papyrus scroll from Apicius through the crack. The woman snatched it from my hand.

  “Wait,” said the voice, and then the door closed.

  When the door opened, a tall man stood there, dressed in a traveling robe. He was of such pale countenance, I wondered if he had ever stood in the sun. He wore his silvery hair long, drawn together with a leather thong about halfway down his back. His eyes were dark, with a rim of green that gave him a godlike quality, as if he were touched by Cybele herself. Four men stood behind him, carrying two large trunks between them.

  “Thrasius, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled. I wa
s surprised to see how straight his teeth were. “Three ravens perched on the roof this morning, heralding the change that would bring me to your master’s house. The stars are aligned. You, my good man, will take me straightaway to Gavius Apicius, where I will guide him as to the wishes of the gods.”

  I wondered if it was the three ravens or the three hundred sestertii promised in that letter that had aligned his stars. I led the group down the shaky staircase. I disliked astrologers but had to admit I felt a strangeness following me, heralding change. I couldn’t find it in my heart to believe it would be for the better.

  • • •

  When we reached the villa I instructed Glycon and his attendants to wait in the coolness of the pergola, then sent one slave to fetch Apicius and another to bring honey water to the newcomers. They drank the sweet refreshment as though it were the first water they had ever had.

  When Apicius arrived, he clasped hands with Glycon as though they were old friends. It made me angry that Apicius held no reservations about a complete stranger coming to live within his walls.

  “Thank you for coming. Sotas will lead you to your rooms and we will talk when you are rested,” Apicius said, motioning to my big friend, who waited by the door.

  “Very good. Would you like for me to attend you at dinner?”

  Sotas gave me a funny look. This was the first step—the request for a dinner invitation, which would extend to a permanent parasite spot at the foot of the couch, then on to other favors, and eventually, as Glycon realized how easily he could work Apicius into a frenzy, he would be ever present. I wondered how long before the man dictated nearly every step Apicius took.

  “Tonight you will meet with me, Aelia, and Thrasius,” Apicius said. “But on most nights you will take your meals in your chambers or elsewhere in Rome, whichever you prefer. I have a full schedule of entertainment and there is not normally room on my couches. However, this evening you may dine with us.”

  Glycon seemed surprised at Apicius’s dour tone, but did not comment. “Certainly. And my slaves?”

  “There is a cubicle adjoining your chamber where they may stay. They can dine in the kitchen at the specified hours. Timon, who runs the kitchen, can give them the schedule. They are to keep to the slave areas—I don’t want to see them in the living areas of the villa. You have permission to use the rest of the house—the baths, the garden, whatever you need, with the exception of the wing where the library and our private rooms are.”

  “Understood. Will I have access to the roof, where I may set up tools to help me better watch the stars?”

  Apicius faltered, surprised at the question. He could not know the answer, having never seen the roofs to know if there was a suitable spot.

  He motioned to me. “Certainly. Thrasius will make those arrangements. By tomorrow we shall have readied a place suitable for you.”

  Glycon tilted his head in acceptance. It was a patient, sage movement, as though he were a wise old priest with much knowledge. I didn’t believe it.

  “Tonight over dinner we will discuss the various factors that will enable me to divine the future for you,” Glycon said. “There is much the heavens have to say, but I need to understand where your place in the stars lies.”

  Sotas led Glycon and the slaves through the villa. I went along, still curious. We wound our way through the long central atrium, past the deep blue pool, through the long hallways, beyond the smells of the kitchen, and to the back of the domus, where Sotas gestured toward a midsized room flanked by a small unused cubicle. The slaves set down the trunks and immediately began the process of unpacking. One trunk appeared to hold many tools, compasses, and charts, while the other held Glycon’s personal effects.

  Sotas turned to leave with me but Glycon touched him on the shoulder, stopping him. A strange look had overtaken his features, turning up one side of his mouth in a slight smile.

  “I see you are marked by a golden goddess.”

  Sotas stared at Glycon, clearly disturbed, but said nothing. He took a deep breath and backed out of the room.

  What did those words mean to Sotas? I was determined to find out.

  • • •

  That evening, we met in the triclinium for an informal dinner. Apicius had not invited any clients, reserving the time for Glycon. I took my seat on the couch and Sotas was offered a place sitting at Apicius’s feet. Passia and Helene were allowed to stay as well, Helene at Aelia’s feet and Passia at mine.

  While Apicius still refused to let us marry, I was pleased that he allowed me to keep Passia close. When a child of a patrician married, she was often allowed to bring her body-slave and other personal slaves with her. Apicata had refused to take Passia, saying that she would not be someone to break love in two. It was the most precious gift our little bird could ever give me. Apicius seemed to recognize the gesture. For the last two years, he had been generous, letting Passia share duties with Helene as Aelia needed. Sometimes she helped me at the school or in the kitchen.

  Timon had made an egg patina of sea nettles and my favorite dish of pheasant meatballs, accompanied by green beans in a cumin sauce, hot pumpkin fritters, and slices of roasted venison. When the scissor slaves had cut our food and left, Glycon began asking questions.

  “First, I need the date of your birth and those of your wife and child.” He held a stylus in one hand and a wax tablet in the other, ready to take down the answers to his questions.

  “And Thrasius,” Apicius said, inclining his head toward me.

  I didn’t want to know my chart. I spoke up, hoping to get out of the obligation. “I am afraid I do not know the date of my birth. I know the year, but not the date.” I wiped my napkin across a glob of sea nettle sauce on my chin. I made a mental note to mention to Timon to adjust the proportions of sauce to the vegetables.

  “Unlucky, but no matter. Answer me these two questions and I will tell you.”

  I was skeptical that anyone save my unknown mother would have any true way of knowing the date of my birth, but on account of Apicius, I forced myself to look eager.

  Glycon cocked an eyebrow at me. “In dreams, in what season do you find yourself the most?”

  My dreams were always seasonless, devoid of any indicator of the exterior setting. I dreamed mostly of people, of places inside the villa, and, most often, the kitchen where I spent my time as a child learning my trade.

  “Harvest.” It was my favorite time of year if not a true reflection of my dreams.

  Glycon made a scribble in the wax before leaning forward to pluck a meatball from the tray in front of him. He popped it into his mouth, chewed, then spoke while his mouth was still full.

  “How old were you when your voice began to change?”

  Passia stroked my ankle with her finger and I almost jumped.

  “I was thirteen,” I managed.

  Glycon began to write on his tablet again. “Your day of birth is on the nones of October.”

  I tried to appear impressed. It was hard not to let loose a chuckle of my own. For all I knew I could have been born on the ides of Martius. Despite my ever-growing misgivings, I didn’t dare laugh—Apicius took astrology and divinations very seriously.

  Apicius broke in before I could say anything. “I was born twelve days before the calends of Julius, Apicata on the ides of Febrius, and Aelia was born three days before the nones of Ianuarius.”

  Glycon recorded the dates. “Good, good. Now I can begin a more thorough examination of the stars to determine your outcomes. But we can begin with some general observations.”

  Apicius waited for Glycon to continue. I knew he was doing his best to be patient but patience had never been easy for him.

  “Start with me.” Aelia smiled sweetly at Apicius, a smile laced with petulance and dissatisfaction. Earlier I had heard them arguing about Glycon coming to live in the house.

  Glycon looked to Apicius, who nodded his reluctant assent.

  “Certainly, my lady. Three days before the nones of Ianua
rius? Ahh. What a good date. You love people and love to see people happy. You are honest and helpful and, above all, affectionate. When you love, you love deeply. I must tell you to take care of your ankles as they may be prone to sprains or breaks.”

  “Aelia, be sure to tie your sandal straps tight,” Apicius said, anxious to move the conversation along. The look he gave Glycon said as much.

  “I cannot tell you more without consulting the ephemeris—my star chart.” The old man set his plate aside.

  “Very well,” Aelia said, understanding the underlying exchange. “Husband, I look to you for dismissal. I am tired this evening.” Helene stood quickly to help her up. She waved her away and rose gracefully to stand in front of the couch, where she awaited Apicius’s response.

  “Thank you, wife, for joining us tonight,” Apicius said formally. I watched her leave, her yellow stola hugging her lithe body as she walked.

  Apicius signaled for the wine to be brought. “Now, Thrasius.” I looked up in surprise. With his desperation to hear the astrologer’s predictions, I was shocked he wanted to hear about me first.

  Glycon looked across the couch at me. “You were born under the scales, a sign auspicious for butchers, cooks, and bakers alike. Venus rules your sign and you have a love for beauty and pleasure. You entertain with elegance and style.”

  “All true!” Apicius said eagerly. I looked at him and at Sotas, who bobbed his head. Apicius’s unsightly ambition was peeking out from behind the purple-striped toga he wore. All reason departed when Apicius heard divinations about food, me, entertaining, and how those three things would comprise his future. Despite the type of divination, be it at a temple to Fortuna, at the hands of a marketplace augur, or even at last year’s pilgrimage to the Oracle of Delphi, the outcome was always the same. Apicius was bound to ignore the bounty before him and the warnings of its potential loss. With each new diviner I found my pity for my former master only grow.