by Crystal King
“Yes, I know. But I have a reputation to uphold. What if young Pliny is right? What if I run out of money?”
I sat down in the chair beside the long desk, still unable to believe my ears. “Why do you care about what a little boy writes?”
Apicius threw his hands into the air, exasperated. “It’s a history!” He looked at me as though I were stupid.
“Ah, yes, a history.” I wondered what Sotas was thinking in the corridor beyond the door. He must have been laughing his sandals off.
I had gone through the books with the secretary just the day before. I pulled the scroll out from the pile on the top of the desk and unrolled it.
“We stand at ten million sestertii. Tonight’s meal cost around ten thousand sestertii, a heavy sum, to be sure, but this is nothing in comparison to the cenae you used to give for Tiberius.”
“Only ten million?” Apicius paled at the thought.
“Only? It still places you among the richest men in all of Rome.”
Apicius didn’t see it in the same way. “My gods, so my inheritance is nearly gone? It was one hundred million! Are you telling me my fortune has dwindled to nearly nothing?”
“Apicius, a thousand sestertii would feed an entire plebeian family for a year.” I smoothed back my hair with my hand. “You realize,” I continued, “that while you were among the vulgar rich before, now you are simply among the very rich.”
The irony was lost on Apicius. He began to pace up and down the length of the library, muttering to himself.
“And what about the farms? The school? My pay from Caesar?”
I sighed. “The farms don’t turn much of a profit because we use them to feed your dinner guests. The school never turned a profit—we operated at a loss, and we still owe money after the fire. Your pay from Caesar is long gone. You spent most of it on new villas, furniture, and gifts for all your friends.”
“This will not do.” He continued to pace.
“We can cut back on various expenses,” I offered.
Apicius stopped, nearly knocking an array of scrolls off the shelf next to him. “Cut back how?”
“Simple things would go a long way.” I rolled up the scroll and knotted it with a cord. “Take, for example, all those geese and pigs you are fattening up in the farm boxes. Stop feeding them the expensive figs and put them back on slop. That alone would save you nearly five thousand sestertii a year.”
Apicius sat down on the chaise across from me. He clutched his stomach, wrinkling the creases of his toga. “I cannot. No, absolutely not. Their livers are all the rage among my diners!”
I tried another tactic. “Find a way to philosophize it . . . make it unfashionable. You are the gourmand, not your diners.”
“They will see through it. They will know my money is disappearing!”
“Fine. Don’t worry about the livers. Even if you served fewer dishes it would curb your expenses. No one would even notice. There is so much waste at the end of every cena. There is no possible way for every dish to be eaten when you serve so much food.”
Apicius would have none of this conversation. “No, no, that will not do,” he said, standing again. “I cannot let Rome know my current standing. That will never do. They must suspect nothing. I will find another way. That boy will never be able to write about me as a failure.”
“What do you intend to do?” I asked, pouring myself a glass of wine from the flagon on the desk. I thinned it with water from the accompanying pitcher.
Apicius ignored the question. “Ten million sestertii? How long do you expect my fortune to last?”
“Maybe five years if you are even the tiniest bit more thoughtful. Far longer if you consider what you should do to start making money rather than spending it.”
“That’s all?” He started to pace the room once more, muttering to himself under his breath. Eventually, he drew near to the desk once more, having come to some sort of internal decision.
His look startled me. It was a look of determination, something Apicius never exhibited when it came to money. I used his familiar name, which I never had before, hoping it would convey my concern. “Marcus, what are you thinking of doing?”
Apicius poured himself a glass of wine from the flagon, not bothering to thin it down. He smiled and raised his glass to me. “My good man, you will see. I think I have an answer. In a few months’ time all will be very different. And that boy? We’ll make sure he writes only the most glorious things about my history.”
I raised my glass, but there was no joy in my toast. Only worry.
• • •
After Sejanus fell and Apicata died I sent for Passia and Junius to return to Rome. I wanted to ease my aching heart, but a part of me also hoped Apicius would take comfort in their company, especially that of Junius, his adopted son and only living heir.
Unfortunately, Apicius barely noticed them, and when he did he was curt to the point of being rude. “That’s fine with me,” Passia said to me as we were readying for sleep one night. “He’s become so mean. I’m not sure how you can stand to be around him.”
“His heart is hurting,” I replied, but even as the words came out of my mouth I knew they sounded inadequate.
“So are ours. We were closer to both Aelia and Apicata than he ever was, and I don’t see either of us snipping at everyone crossing our path.”
I slipped off my tunic and hung it on the back of the low chair against the wall. “I think something is very wrong with him,” I said, voicing my concerns for the first time. “He’s become erratic. He threatens me one moment and in the next he praises me, seemingly forgetting he just told me he was going to make me a eunuch. He has also started to leave the house without guards, even without Sotas.”
Passia put down the comb she had been running through her hair. “Without Sotas? But why would he do that? All manner of things might happen to him! He’s got more than a few enemies in Rome.”
“I don’t know. Sotas trailed him yesterday and apparently he went to a knife and arms master, but came out with nothing.”
Passia wrinkled her nose. “How strange. But he’s been very social lately. More than he has been in a long while.”
“Exactly. Which is yet another thing on the list of things that don’t make sense to me. And now he wants me to start preparing for a very elaborate convivium next month, the biggest one we can hold here in the house. He wants to spare no expense. None at all. He wants gold plates, jeweled napkins, rubies in the bottom of every wineglass. I’m supposed to buy any silphium I can find, regardless of price. He wants me to source only the best honey, the best figs, the best wine, and the best meat. He wants me to buy new serving boys and girls, only the prettiest, he said.”
“But I thought you said he was worried about money.”
“I thought he was. And if not, he should be.” I pulled back the covers and climbed in. My eyes roamed the saucy painting on the wall above our bed.
“But what about Timon? He’s so ill.”
“I know. But even if he wasn’t sick, Apicius didn’t want him to be in charge of this meal. He wants it to be me. He keeps saying this will be the most amazing meal Rome has ever seen, and if so, it means Rome’s best cook needs to be in charge of the kitchen. Which I suppose I should be flattered he thinks is me.”
“Well, you are the best cook in Rome.” Passia climbed into bed next to me, and I marveled at how her body was still so slender after all these years. She leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek.
I snatched her by the arm and pulled her close. “Good thing you are married to me, then, right?”
She laughed and her hair tickled my face. “I didn’t marry you for your food, you silly goat.” I felt her hand between my legs.
I smiled and put Apicius and everyone else out of my mind.
• • •
The next day was not pleasant. Timon died in the night, succumbing to the fever that had consumed him off and on in the last two weeks. I always wondered how lo
ng he would serve us. After all, he was old when I found him. I was doubly upset now, though, for his death left me with such a feat to accomplish in such a short time frame.
Apicius had no sympathy for me. When I asked if we could hold off his party until I found a new cook, he said, “No, we can’t. This will be the ultimate party, Thrasius. I know you don’t want to miss it. Do it for me this time and I promise that you won’t need to cook again in my house unless you absolutely want to. You can wait till after the party to find a new cook.”
I groaned, but he had me. I wanted to stop cooking. I was starting to tire of spending so much time in the kitchen, and the thought of doing it without Timon was especially daunting at my age. “Do I have your word on that?” I asked, still wary.
He smiled. “I give you my solemn oath. After this convivium you will be able to decide if and when you want to cook again.”
I didn’t believe him.
• • •
Still, I began the preparations. My initial intention was to cut corners on costs but Apicius hovered over all my plans, preventing me from saving precious coin. I sent messengers on horseback to the farthest reaches of Italy for the goods one could carry back to Rome in a few saddlebags. I spent an inordinate amount of time at the markets, Apicius on my heels, purchasing the most costly spices; reams of opulent silk for pillow coverings; ornate, one-of-a-kind oil lamps; and hundred-year-old wines so thick that only the best honey, lead, and spices would bring them back to life. I buried fish in salt, and sealed plums in spirits and left them to age in the dark. I made Roman absinthe and apple wine. I bought the best suckling pigs and began to fatten them on the most expensive figs. I fed our goats a specially sourced mixture of apples, hay, and clover to give their milk new flavor.
The guest list was the biggest challenge of all. We could fit only two hundred or so people in the house, even if we transformed some of the rooms into additional triclinia. Which meant we had to pare the guest list back by more than seventy-five people.
“We don’t have to seat them all,” Apicius insisted. “Let them wander.”
It was late afternoon and Apicius had returned from the baths, where he had apparently invited several random friends who didn’t happen to be on the initial guest list.
“We don’t have room in the house, Apicius. We don’t have the space we had at the school, or when we could throw parties at Caesar’s villa. Maybe we could stretch the list to two hundred but that will be pushing our limits.”
Apicius looked out the window down onto the Forum below. “Do what you can. Invite two hundred for now but maybe more will show up.” He sounded wistful to me, as though he didn’t believe anyone would attend.
“Do you trust me to create the list?”
He glanced back at me. “Implicitly. But I may invite some who aren’t on your list.”
“Apicius!” I was exasperated. “If you trust me to invite two hundred people, you shouldn’t need to invite anyone else. Didn’t we just discuss we have no room?”
“That’s fine. I’m sure all the right people who need to be at the party will be there.” He turned back to the window.
One of his moods crept across him. He stopped answering any of my additional questions, so I left, wondering to myself the very thing Passia had asked me—how did I endure him?
I thought a lot about that over the coming weeks as I prepared for the meal. Apicius tried my patience at every twist and turn. Why, then, did I put up with his mood swings and irrationalities? A sane person would have left long before. Was I insane?
No, I had to admit I did it because Apicius was my friend, my family, and because without me he was nothing; he had nothing. I thought of myself in his place—I would want a friend by my side. I continued the preparations, despite all my misgivings.
I’m not sure what I expected the party to do for him. I knew it wouldn’t satisfy his grief, nor would it change Rome’s opinion of him. It might make people think he was richer than he was, but it would only serve to worsen the dilemma he faced—how to continue to maintain the appearance of such wealth when in truth it was dwindling.
The last thing I expected, of course, was what actually happened.
• • •
On the morning of the convivium Apicius came to the kitchen, a slender box tucked under one arm. I looked up from the pastry dough I had rolled onto the counter. I was surprised to see him awake.
His smile was broad. “What a beautiful morning!” He glanced over my shoulder through the window toward the sunny garden. The pigs were being slaughtered and we could hear their final squeals.
“Yes, it is,” I agreed, wishing I were out walking in the sun rather than trapped in the kitchen making pastry animals.
“I brought you something to celebrate.”
“To celebrate what?”
He laughed, his jowls shaking. “All the amazing meals you’ve made for me! You, of course!” He slid the box across the table toward me, careful to avoid the piles of flour.
I wiped my hands on the towel at my waist, curious and a bit dismayed by his gracious speech. The box itself was gorgeous, made from a beautiful piece of citron wood. I was reminded of a table Cicero once bought that had been made from the exorbitantly expensive wood. He wrote that the veins were “arranged in waving lines to form spirals like small whirlpools.” It was such a vivid description, I had always remembered it, and now, as I looked at this box, I realized how true the statement was. I could not imagine how much the box cost—and it made me wonder what on earth the contents might be.
“Go on, open it!” Apicius jerked his chin toward the box. A crooked smile decorated his face.
With a deep breath, I opened it. Inside lay two beautiful ebony-handled knives, both made in shapes I had myself personally sketched—Apicius and I had long talked about how to improve our kitchen knives. I had never imagined the designs would have gone beyond our brief conversations, and yet here they were, inventions of my own mind come to life.
One knife was longer, meant for carving, and the other was shorter, designed for smaller kitchen tasks. The metal of each blade contained a beautiful and delicate pattern that looked very much like flowing water. I touched my finger to the flat of the larger blade, expecting to feel a raised impression, but instead found it was smooth. And oh! The blades were very sharp. I nicked my finger with the slightest test.
When I looked up at my former master, I had a lump in my throat.
Apicius clapped a hand to my shoulder. “They’re from Damascus. I had them made for you. They should last for centuries. They are unique, truly, as there are no others like them in the world and likely never to be again. Just as you, my friend, are rare and unique. You have been a great source of pride in my life. Thank you.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I stammered.
“Then say nothing! Cook with them today. Cook me the best meal I have ever had. No, the best meal Rome has ever had!”
“I will. I promise you.”
And I did. I cooked him the best meal of his life. It was also the best meal Rome never had.
• • •
His fellow Romans never partook in the meal because in the moments before the convivium was to start Apicius ordered Sotas to have the guards bar the doors and turn all the guests away. Passia came to the kitchen bearing the news.
“Apicius forbade everyone entry! The guests are pounding on the doors!” She was breathless, having run the length of the house. She had been with the slave girls in the atrium awaiting the guests when Apicius made the announcement.
“I don’t understand. He canceled the party? Without telling me?” I didn’t wait for an answer, storming past her toward the triclinium.
Sotas stood outside the room, his mouth drawn in a somber line. The doors to the triclinium were, uncharacteristically, closed.
“I take it you’ve heard the news.”
“Mercury’s boots! What is going on? I have my slaves lined up with the gustatio, ready to go.�
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“Don’t worry. They will still serve the food.”
I noticed Sotas had his sword with him. It lay against the wall, gleaming in the light from the torch in the corridor. I started to ask but Apicius’s voice rang out from behind the doors.
“Is that Thrasius? Send him in!”
I had been looking at the door when the shout came. I turned back to Sotas, hoping for a hint of what to expect. What I saw shocked me.
He looked like he was about to cry.
Thoroughly disconcerted, I pushed open the doors. Apicius reclined on the farthest couch, sipping a glass of honey water. His broad smile confused me even further. What was going on?
“Why did you bar the doors? Your guests are banging to get in!” I walked across the tiles to where he lay.
“Ahh, come, Thrasius! Sit with me for a moment.”
I sat across from him but didn’t recline. I wasn’t sure what to think. He looked happier than he had in years, his round cheeks ruddy and hale, and his eyes glittering. I waited for him to explain.
“Today is the day, I decided. I turned my guests away because they should not have to endure what is to happen.”
My stomach felt like a stone had been dumped into it. “And what is going to happen?” I asked, although I knew what he was going to say.
“I want you to serve the meal just as you would have if all the guests were here. I want to watch the entertainment, to touch the skin of the girls and boys who serve me. I want to feel the smoothness of a grape on my tongue, experience the flavor of the swollen liver from the pig you slaughtered this morning, know the taste of figs as their seeds scrape against my teeth.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from beneath the pillow next to him.
“Take this.” He handed the packet to me. “It’s my will. I give everything to you and Junius. You are to free Sotas and five hundred of my slaves of your choosing. The rest of my slaves and all of my piddling fortune fall to you and your son.”
“I don’t understand, Apicius.” My words caught in my throat. “Why . . . why, why must you do this?”
“Now, do not be upset. I have my dignity to uphold! It’s time to go, before I have nothing left. I want the entire world to know me for the feasts we had—for their magnificence, for the experience you and I have given them that no one else could. That boy Pliny was right. I am running out of money. And it would not do to have that in my history. I want no one to say that old, fat Apicius starved to death!”