Feast of Sorrow Page 2

  I remained silent.

  Like the domus itself, the kitchen was the largest I had ever seen, full of bustling slaves preserving food, cleaning pots, and cooking on the three large hearths. The fresh, sweet essence of honey cakes wafted through the air, mingling with the acrid smell of vinegar and the rich aroma of smoking meats. The kitchen was loud and hot despite the ocean breeze drifting through the open windows. A red long-tailed hound lay in one corner, asleep with his tongue hanging out one side of his mouth. A large sundial in the garden was visible through the kitchen window. I had only a few hours to prepare an elaborate meal.

  I counted fifteen kitchen slaves. They all appeared to be cooking, not serving, and I guessed there must have been at least a dozen more elsewhere who served the courses of the cena. A few prepubescent youths wandered in and out of the kitchen, likely errand runners. I could barely breathe—by the gods, how was I going to manage all these people? I knew how to run a kitchen, but only a small one, with three slaves and three servers—nothing on the scale of what appeared to be expected of me in the Gavian household! My moment to worry passed quickly, for after we entered the room, Sotas rang a large bell on a shelf next to the kitchen door and all the slaves stopped their work, their faces shining in the heat. He pushed me forward into the room and presented me to the kitchen.

  “That the new coquus?” an older, mostly toothless woman asked from her post at a low counter where she was pickling parsnips. Her long gray hair, streaked with white, was loose and cascaded down her back. I wondered how much of it found its way into the food.

  “He’s your new boss. Don’t make him angry,” Sotas warned, and headed back into the depths of the house.

  I watched him go, unsure of what I should do. The kitchen staff waited for me to speak but I could not find a thing to say. A huddle of women plucking chickens and pheasants kept working, looking from me to the birds and back again. The dog lifted its head expectantly. After an uncomfortable silence, the toothless woman spoke up. “Are you mute, boy?”

  The words of my former master Maximus came back to me. He had always said that there would be certain times, despite my status as a slave, when I would need audacity and sheer brazen nerve. In those moments I should assume that all around me understood that I knew best. For the first time, I understood the truth of Maximus’s words. If I didn’t speak and react with authority, I would never have the respect of the staff, and given all the money Apicius had spent on me, I had better gain that respect fast.

  “Mute? Unfortunately for all of you, no, I am not.” I strode to the center of the kitchen. I gazed at each of them as I spoke. “I am Thrasius but you will call me Coquus. I run a smooth kitchen and I expect the best out of my staff. You there”—I pointed to the old woman—“what is your name?”

  She arched her brow, deciding whether she should answer me. I stood my ground, staring intently at her until she blinked, her black eyes disappearing behind wrinkles of skin.

  “Balsamea.”

  “Balsamea, who is second to the coquus in this kitchen?” My eyes scanned the room, refusing to betray my fear to the other slaves. Most were older than me and that would make gaining their trust even harder.

  “That would be me, Coquus,” said a man standing near a large jug of garum in the corner of the room. I noted the stamp on the vessel, from Lusitania, one of the finest garum factories in the Empire. Good garum, a sauce made from the entrails of little anchovies, was one of the most important flavors in a dish. I was glad to see I would have access to the best.

  “I’m Rúan.” The man stepped forward, wiping his floured hands on his thick kitchen tunic. He was young, still in his teens, with an unusual head of red hair and striking green eyes. I wondered if he was from Hibernia, the large isle off Britannia.

  “Rúan, I have a menu which Dominus has instructed me to prepare for tonight’s cena. Have you slaughtered any pigs recently?”

  “There is fresh ham from this morning stored in the cellar,” Balsamea spoke up. Rúan glared at her for answering on his behalf, but she didn’t look away from the vegetables she was slicing.

  “Good.” I glanced around the room. “Who bakes the best pastries in this kitchen?”

  “Vatia has won the praise of Dominus Apicius,” Rúan replied, pointing to a young woman standing behind a low table on the right side of the room. He was Hibernian, his accent so thick that I had to concentrate to understand. Vatia stopped kneading bread long enough to nod her acknowledgment. Her dark, shiny hair was pulled back in a tight knot, which pleased me. Before the end of the night, I planned to tell Balsamea that imitating Vatia would be in her best interest and that she would no longer have the liberty of keeping her greasy locks free in my kitchen.

  “Have you prepared the honey cakes?”

  Vatia pointed to a nearby pan filled with little cakes ready to slide into the oven. Good. One less thing to worry about. “There are two more tasks for you this evening. You will prepare fifteen rounds of dough, which I’ll use to wrap the hams. I also want you to cook the fried honey fritters for the cena secunda. It seems you are already at work on baking the bread.” I assumed Apicius had invited guests according to tradition, meaning there would be nine guests, symbolizing the nine Muses. Still, I could be wrong and being prepared for accidents was wise. Additionally, there were often uninvited guests, “shadows” or “parasites,” who sat at the ends of the couches and would need to be fed.

  “If we do not have on hand melons, saffron, morels, chickpeas, pomegranates, lobster, oysters, pears, and snails, you’d better send the fastest boy we have to the market to get them,” I said to Rúan.

  A cry rose from the back of the room. “I’ll do it, I’ll do it!” The voice came from a blue-eyed boy dressed in a ripped tunic, waving his tanned arm around wildly. The boy moved forward. Rúan opened his mouth as if to say something when the boy tripped and crashed into a table. The kitchen slaves shouted as the table toppled, taking with it a dozen brightly colored glass goblets. Several of the slaves lunged to catch some of the glasses but no one was swift enough to save them. They crashed into the tiles, shattering into a thousand rainbow pieces. I closed my eyes and took a deep sigh to keep calm. No doubt those goblets were precious.

  “Pallas! You fool! Out! Get out!” Rúan yelled at the boy. Balsamea took him by the shoulder and led him away.

  The broken glasses were the least of my worries. Despite the gravity of the situation, I could not stop thinking about Apicius’s last words to me—the instructions not to eat any food I hadn’t directly prepared. I watched the slaves hurry to clean up the mess: Rúan, the ruddy Spaniard with the broom, the girl with the unusual blond hair picking up shards of glass, and all the others milling about. I regarded each of the fifteen slaves, wondering who among them might want to poison me.

  CHAPTER 2

  It was a massive task. The water clock in the corner of the kitchen showed that I had less than four hours to prepare for dinner. Still, I could not take my mind off that flock of birds we saw, or Fortuna’s unreadable stare. Despite the lack of time, I knew I must have more spiritual guidance. I asked Balsamea where the family’s Lares shrine was located, suspecting her to be one who held to tradition. Approval flickered in her eyes. Rúan, however, snorted and shook his head. It was clear that he thought little of our Roman gods.

  Still, he had Balsamea remain in the kitchen and he himself led me to the atrium. He pointed at the tiled recess in the wall that housed several tiny statues of the Lares and Penates, the household gods and family ancestors. Sunshine filtered into the open area of the atrium and glinted off the polished bronze and gold of the statues. I removed a small stick from the wooden box next to the shrine, lit it from the torch flickering nearby, then lit the lump of incense sitting in a golden bowl in front of the statues. The smell of myrrh filled my nostrils. I knelt.

  “Whether You for whom this house is sacred are a god, or a goddess, I wholeheartedly pray to You, O holy Lares. Please grant me success today a
nd in all the days following and I shall offer You a honey cake each day I am blessed in the house of Marcus Gavius Apicius.”

  I didn’t linger long. Rúan waited for me at the edge of the atrium and together we hurried back through the labyrinthine corridors. For extra measure, I said a few additional prayers to myself as I walked: to Sors, god of luck; to Fornax, goddess of the ovens; to Cardea, goddess of thresholds; and again to Fortuna.

  A voice stopped us. “You there!” The command was loud and shrill.

  We turned, unsure who the command was directed toward. An elderly woman dressed in rich yellow silks strode toward us, anger etched in her eyes. She looked as if she regularly bathed in unhappiness. Her visage resembled a gorgon, with a nose hooked like a vulture’s beak and dark, squinty eyes. A black wig sat slightly crooked on top of her head. Several strands of wispy silver hair poked out from under the edges like little weed snakes.

  She drew near. “Who are you?”

  Rúan had fallen to one knee. I too bowed low in deference. “Thrasius, the new coquus.”

  “I thought as much. Stand up.”

  No sooner than I had, she cuffed me across my chin with the back of her hand. Pain accompanied the scrape of a ring as it cut open my skin.

  She stalked off.

  I stood there in stunned silence for a moment, wondering what had happened. I stopped the blood with my hand, grateful it was only a scratch.

  I felt Rúan’s hand on my shoulder. “Apicius’s mother, Popilla.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He shook his head. “Not here,” he whispered. “Come.”

  • • •

  Once we were back in the kitchen, Rúan handed me a basket and told me that he wanted to show me where everything was located, then led me past the other slaves to a storage room adjacent to the kitchen. I was shocked at the display on the shelves, momentarily forgetting the bruise rising on my cheek. I gaped at the beautifully wrought glass goblets of all shades and sizes, stacks of dishes imported from many parts of the world, trays full of spoons with pointed handles, and sets of woven napkins. I had never seen so much wealth gathered in one place.

  “Napkins and spoons?” In most houses a guest brought his own to dinner.

  “Apicius spares no expense.”

  “I see.” The throbbing had begun anew. “Why did Apicius’s mother hit me?”

  Rúan curled up his lip in disgust. “Because she can. Expect her to abuse you regularly. You have the attention of Dominus and she will despise you for it. She hated the last cook too. I am certain she drove him to his death.”

  I stopped myself from cursing aloud. Of all the people I had to worry about, it would have to be Apicius’s mother. It made me wonder again about what Apicius had said before he left me in the kitchen. “Dominus warned me not to eat anything I hadn’t prepared with my own hand. Do you know why?”

  Rúan grimaced. He glanced toward the small barred window in the back of the room where the sea breeze occasionally gusted inward. “Probably because Dominus doesn’t want you to die.”

  Goose bumps surfaced on my arms. “So that’s what happened to the other cook.”

  “Aye. Most of us think Popilla had him killed. She hated Paetas. Stay away from her.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Two months ago, Dominus Apicius was visiting his villa in Minturnae and Domina Aelia was on the other side of Baiae taking care of a sick friend. With both of them gone, Popilla had dinner alone in her room. She complained about her soup and demanded Paetas try it and tell her what he thought. He tried the soup and agreed that it shouldn’t taste so.”

  Rúan’s eyes darkened with the memory. “Paetas went back to the kitchen, dumped the soup, and sent a fresh bowl to Popilla, which she ate with no complaint. By the time she went to bed, Paetas was complaining of dizziness and that his heart was beating too fast. His face turned red and he started vomiting. Soon he was gasping for air, and before morning arrived, he was gone.” Rúan shuddered.

  I wondered if any of the slaves felt loyalty toward Popilla. I endeavored to keep my face devoid of emotion in front of my new second-in-command. “Why would she have wanted to hurt Paetas, or me, for that matter?”

  “Nothing she does makes any sense.”

  “Did anyone accuse her of Paetas’s death?”

  Rúan shook his head. “How could we? Fortunately, Domina Aelia had returned. She stayed with us through the night. We waited with Paetas until he died, promising him we would send his ashes to the sea. Balsamea thinks it was yew powder because it takes a while to work. Paetas didn’t feel ill until Popilla had long since retired and the soup had been thrown out, so we couldn’t test it on one of the chickens.

  “Domina believed us but what could she do? Popilla is her husband’s mother. The only thing she could do to punish Popilla was to tell her that without the cook, the staff couldn’t be trusted to make anything besides barley soup. We served soup and apples until Apicius returned a month later.” He lowered his voice and looked toward the door to make sure no one would hear. “Popilla is so stupid she never realized Domina let us eat normal meals when Popilla took her bath or left the villa to eat with friends, which, after the first few days, was nearly every night. Popilla hates barley soup.”

  “What does Apicius think of his mother?” I asked.

  “He barely puts up with her. He avoids her when they are both at home. I once asked Sotas why Dominus doesn’t send her away. He told me Apicius had promised his father he would take care of her. When Gavius Rutilus died, he gave Apicius everything and Popilla nothing. I’ve heard it was well over one hundred million sestertii! I think that makes it clear what he thought of his crazy wife. Apicius would love to find her a husband. I hear her dowry is huge, so someone will probably take the old sow off his hands soon.”

  The conversation was beginning to run long and I started to worry about the meal. I surveyed the glassware and cutlery before me. I took the basket from Rúan and motioned at the shelves.

  “Those glasses that Pallas broke, did Apicius pick them out especially for tonight?”

  Rúan shrugged. “I don’t know. They were delivered earlier today. They could have been a gift from a client, or Dominus could have had them ordered. If something new arrives we usually use it the same day.”

  “Let’s hope they were a random gift.” In their place we put aside a set of glass cups colorfully painted with vivid pictures of powerful animals—bulls, cheetahs, and horses. If Apicius asked, I would explain the broken glasses, but in looking at the collection before me, I had a feeling he wouldn’t miss them.

  We finished packing the basket. When we emerged, I found myself coughing as kitchen smoke filled my lungs. I had never been in a kitchen with so many ovens—three of them along one wall. Dozens of amphorae of oil and wine lined another wall, while shelves filled with bronze pots and baskets of vegetables took up space along the wall closest to the door.

  I barely had time to set the basket down before Apicius burst into the kitchen, Sotas trailing behind. Apicius was already dressed for dinner in an off-white toga. His leather shoes were dyed red, another symbol of his patrician status. They set him apart from other rich, noble citizens, equestrians, who did not have the family ancestry that marked them as elite.

  He didn’t notice me. “Thrasius!” he bellowed across the kitchen.

  “Yes, Dominus?” I moved around the table past Balsamea. He fixed his gaze on me.

  “I received word Publius Octavius will be joining us tonight. He will be critical of every aspect of this evening’s cena. Octavius is a man who believes his cook to be the best in the Empire. You will prove him wrong. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Dominus.” I tried to keep the fear from my voice.

  I opened my mouth to ask him more about Octavius but Sotas shook his head in warning. I took the hint—Apicius’s foul mood would only find fuel with my words.

  “If you are successful, I will give everyone in your kitc
hen an extra holiday this month.”

  A murmur of excitement reverberated among the slaves who had quieted to hear the conversation. Many masters did not afford their slaves holidays. Thankfully, the words of the mighty philosophers such as Cato the Elder touted the need to give hardworking slaves regular days off from work, swaying many slave owners who wanted to moderate unruly slaves.

  “Thank you, Dominus, that is generous of you.”

  Apicius glared at me. “Don’t thank me yet. If you fail, each of you will lose two holidays this month.”

  The kitchen was silent, then erupted into a sudden clamor of knives beginning their chop, logs being thrown onto the fire, and the slaves rushing back to their tasks.

  I spoke up, taking a chance at my master’s wrath. “Dominus, I too saw the birds fly this morning when you prayed to Fortuna. I believe they were a sign—”

  “It had better be a good sign,” Apicius cut me off. “Remember, make no mistake this evening. You will not tarnish my reputation as a host.”

  Sotas dipped his chin at me and followed after our Dominus.

  “Coquus?” Vatia waved at me to come to her table. Rúan stood next to her. He ran a hand along her arm as he made to return to his own station, a casual but intimate gesture. I made a mental note; sometimes romance in the kitchen was a lucky thing but sometimes it only hindered work at hand.

  “What is it?” I was irritated, assuming that she had been distracted. “You are only now rolling out the dough?” I bit my tongue so she could explain, reminding myself that anger would not be helpful under such circumstances, despite Apicius’s dire warning about Octavius’s expectations.

  “My apologies, Coquus, but dough holds its shape better if given time to chill.” Her voice shook and she stared at me with wide brown eyes. I realized she could not be much older than Rúan.

  “Chill?” I asked, wondering how anything could be cooled in the blistering summer heat, much less with the heat the ovens generated.

  “Under the domus there is a snow chamber,” she said. “You will never want for cold in this kitchen. We had a shipment this morning.”