Feast of Sorrow Read online

  When I worked for Maximus, I’d ordered snow to be delivered only a handful of times. I couldn’t help but stare in amazement whenever I saw the hard-packed ice chunks, usually delivered in thick, straw-padded barrels buried under a wagon full of hay. The barrels, harvested from the hills of Mons Gaurus, west of Rome, each cost a small fortune.

  Vatia was no longer looking at me; she was rolling a round of dough around one of the hams, which had been scored, smeared with honey, and stuffed with figs. Her method was precise and the dough formed perfectly around the meat in a way I had never been able to achieve before.

  “I see what you mean about chilling the dough,” I said, amazed.

  “This is what I wanted to show you.” She directed my gaze toward a few strangely cut pieces of dough in front of her.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Watch.” She picked up the pieces and attached them to the pastry-wrapped ham, her thin fingers carefully sealing the pieces of dough to the ham by dipping them in water. In a few moments she sat back.

  “It’s a pig!” I exclaimed, pleased with the ears and snout she had added to the ham.

  “I hoped you would like it,” she said, her voice filling with pride. “I had the idea when you first told me what we were doing. I had a pig pictured in my mind and thought it might be pleasing to guests if I could re-create it.”

  “Do you think they will bake without issue?” I asked, worried.

  “They should. Also, I thought I would brush them with egg so they are shiny when they come out of the oven.”

  “Please do.” I could not take my eyes off the little pig. It was brilliant and I wished I had thought of it. I patted her on the shoulder. “The gods are smiling on you! Show me the secret. I’ll help you finish.” I let her demonstrate how to cut the proper shapes out of the dough, thanking Fortuna for sending me someone like Vatia to make my first meal extraordinary. This attention to detail was what truly made my heart sing, and to find someone else who had such an eye felt like a relief amid the chaos.

  • • •

  When I surveyed Rúan’s work during the final meal preparations, I asked why Apicius hadn’t let him run the kitchen. He seemed to be both capable and willing to learn.

  “I’m only sixteen. Plus, it wouldn’t be good luck for Dominus.” He smirked, shaking his head of wild red hair. I should have realized that Apicius would never let a barbarian run his kitchen.

  I probed a little further. “Sotas told me that our Dominus wants to be gastronomic adviser to Caesar. Do you know why?”

  “Aye. He wants fame. He wants the world to know who he is. The thing is, he has no talent for anything. He’d make a terrible senator, orator, or lawyer. He thinks too much of himself to go into the merchant trade. So he needs to tie his star to Caesar. The only thing he knows how to do well is eat and, to some extent, marry flavors together. That’s where you come in—your job is to make him famous.”

  I thought back to my purchase. The slave trader had seemed to know that about my new master. “The boy will make you famous,” he had said. He had said a few other things as well, but it was that word—famous—that had caused Apicius to spend so much money on my purchase.

  • • •

  A little before sundown, an hour before the cena was to start, someone called my name. I looked up from the final preparations of the hams and found myself staring into the green eyes of a young woman with plain features who stood on the other side of the worktable. She wore a rich red silk tunica layered with a patterned red and yellow stola. Her chestnut-colored hair was piled high atop her head, leaving dozens of curls to frame her face. Around her neck rested a shiny golden necklace with inlaid garnets and pearls. The matron of the house.

  I was covered in flour, with smears of wine and honey wiped haphazardly across my kitchen tunic. Embarrassed, I bobbed my head in greeting, keeping my eyes low.

  “No, please do not look away. I’m Aelia,” she said. I looked up, surprised by her jovial tone. “I wanted to greet you personally. Marcus was in a mood today and I fear he may have been unduly harsh with you about his expectations for tonight’s meal. Normally he’s quite involved with dinner preparations but I thought it might be best to keep him out of your way on your first day with us.”

  “Thank you for your kindness,” I stammered, unsure of what else was expected of me. In other households where I’d served, the matron of the house rarely paid me any mind unless something with a meal had gone wrong. Instead, here she was, telling me she was protecting me from the whims of my new master.

  She walked around the kitchen, peering into bowls and tasting from the dishes with the tips of her fingers. The rushing slaves slowed when she came near and hardworking scowls turned into smiles of pride when she commented on their work. When a blond wisp of a girl from Germania dropped a basket of apples and they tumbled across the floor, Aelia bent to help her pick them up. She waved off the slaves who came to her side, talking gaily as she and the girl placed the apples back in the basket. “Give the bruised ones out to the other slaves,” she said, winking at the girl, who bowed her thanks repeatedly.

  Aelia plucked an apple from the top of the basket and brought it to Balsamea, who thanked her profusely and slipped the apple into her pocket. Aelia closed her eyes and breathed in the aroma of the kitchen. “Thrasius, if your food tonight tastes half as good as it smells, you are well on your way to earning great respect in this household.”

  “I hope everything will be to your liking, Domina,” I mumbled. “My apologies if it seems simple or rushed.”

  Aelia grinned at me. “I’m sure it will be fine. Marcus has been bragging to me all afternoon about how fortunate he was to find you for sale,” she said. “Could you do me a favor?” Aelia cocked her head slightly as she spoke.

  I was in awe of this young woman. For all the rapport I had had with my previous Dominus, he still commanded me as any master would a slave, as did his wife, who used to bleat instructions at me through thin puckered lips and the bar of her yellow teeth. There were never any “favors” to be given, only service demanded.

  “Of course, I am pleased to serve,” I said, motioning for Vatia to take over the task of brushing egg yolk across the dough before the hams went into the oven for their final stage of cooking.

  “Marcus will love those pigs.” Aelia smiled, motioning to the tray with her hand. “So will Apicata, but I am sure she’ll be more interested in playing with them than eating them.”

  “Apicata is your daughter?”

  “Yes. That’s why I came by. To meet you, but also to ask you to have dinner ready for her in a short while. She’s sleeping now but will be up soon. Maybe some cheese and fruit?” Aelia curled a strand of hair around her finger as she spoke. “Rúan came by with her supper earlier but she had fallen asleep amid her dolls. We played all day at the ocean and she was tired.”

  “Yes, Domina. The sun and sea do tend to wear you out.” I myself was pleased to be near the water and already looked forward to my first day off so I could wander the beach below the house. All day the smell of the sea had invigorated me every time a breeze blew through the open kitchen windows.

  “I’ll send Passia along to fetch a tray. May Fortuna and the Lares of this house shine upon you tonight!” Aelia pulled her stola close around her and left the kitchen, the tink-tink sound of the gold links of her necklaces and earrings becoming fainter as she moved through the corridor beyond.

  I instructed one of the younger slaves to put together a plate for Apicata and returned to the task of organizing the slaves who were serving the cena courses.

  “Remember to count!” I instructed the six serving slaves as they left the kitchen and crossed the threshold into the outdoor triclinium, where the guests rested on couches in the late-summer sun. Despite the frenzy in the kitchen, I’d managed to find a half hour in the afternoon to help the slaves practice the way I wanted them to serve the meal. It was obsessive, but I could not help myself. When the spectacl
e of the food arrived in a fantastic way, it made the pleasure of eating the meal all that much greater.

  I watched as the slaves reached the diners, stepped together in perfect time, and simultaneously placed trays of food on the tables before each guest. The servers removed polished spoons from their aprons and newly bleached napkins from over their shoulders and presented them to the guests. I breathed a sigh of relief that the slaves followed my instructions and stayed in step with one another.

  The cheese flowers that accompanied the bread made the ladies squeal with delight, but it was the look on Apicius’s face that pleased me most. Throughout the meal, Apicius beamed, his face glowing more from pride than it did from the light of the fading sunset over the sea.

  When I returned from the triclinium, where the guests were finishing their honey cakes and drinking from jeweled goblets of pear juice, a woman entered the kitchen from a side door.

  Out of all the surprises I’d had that day, she was the most surprising of all. The vision of her dark eyes, waves of auburn curls, and the sylphlike curve of her hips would haunt me in the days to come.

  “I came for Apicata’s meal,” she said. Her voice floated across the room, undulations of sound washing over my skin. This was the woman Aelia had said would come for the tray. Passia. The name glittered in my mind as I made the connection.

  “Is that it?” She pointed, one long finger tipped with carefully curved, pink-pale nails. I had been standing like a statue, stunned by my close proximity to what I thought might be the physical manifestation of Venus herself.

  “That’s the plate, yes, over there. There.” Suddenly I wished she would leave. If not, all would be lost. I wouldn’t be able to complete the cena, wouldn’t be able to direct the servers, and would end up under the lash as the result of my gloomy failure to live up to Apicius’s expectations. Inside my head, I said a prayer to Venus that Passia would go, but in the same breath, I begged the goddess that Passia would remember me, as I knew I would remember every sumptuous detail about the moments she stood before me.

  Thankfully the goddess was paying attention. Passia didn’t give me a second glance. She skimmed across the room, her arm brushing my hand as she leaned over the table to take the tray. In the span of a dove’s breath, she was gone.

  Balsamea noticed my agitation. She flicked a bit of water at me with the end of the spoon she had been using. “Looks like there is more than dough rising in this kitchen, wouldn’t you say?”

  If I had felt heat on my cheeks earlier, it was tenfold with that statement. I glared at her, wishing I could hurl a lightning bolt in her direction. I chose not to answer, but instead turned back to my counter to finish shucking the last of the oysters.

  CHAPTER 3

  Rúan and I stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the outdoor triclinium, looking toward the guests and the sea beyond. I tried to ignore the rumble in my belly. I’d taken Apicius’s warning about being poisoned to heart and hadn’t eaten anything that day save for some radishes I’d pulled from the garden and small tastes from various dishes I myself had prepared.

  Apicius and his guests chatted merrily, enjoying the cooling salt breezes, marveling at the pomegranate sunset over the ocean. A three-sided couch, or triclinium, held nine guests to represent the nine Muses, as tradition dictated. Each diner lay on his side propped up by one elbow. A square table rested at the center of the couch, laden with hard-boiled quail eggs, grapes, olives, and little treats to whet the appetite. The guest of honor that night, in unusual form, was a woman. She lay laughing in the coveted position on the far left of the middle couch, next to Apicius.

  “Who is that?” I whispered to Rúan. I was grateful for his willingness to help me navigate the politics of Apicius’s household.

  “Fannia, an old family friend of the Gavii. She recently remarried but you’ll not meet her husband anytime soon.”

  I was about to ask why but Rúan continued, gesturing at the man who sat between Fannia and Apicius’s mother. “I don’t know the name of the man at the end of the couch but I think he’s another money-hungry lawyer interested in Popilla’s dowry.”

  I leaned back into the kitchen and indicated that the next set of servers should deliver the lobsters and oysters to the table. I held my breath until the slaves set the snow- and shellfish-laden platters down and turned back toward the kitchen after an exaggerated bow.

  Rúan chuckled as Popilla immediately reached toward the tray to snatch the largest piece of lobster tail on the plate. We watched the diners extract the oysters from their shells with the pointed handles of their spoons.

  “That’s Trio and Celera.” Rúan indicated a young couple reclining on the other side of Fannia. Trio was a handsome man with thinning hair and a jawline characteristic of the long Caelius line of Roman patricians. Celera seemed about fourteen or fifteen and appeared to be with child.

  “Apicius said that Publius Octavius would be in attendance. Is that him on the other side of Fannia?” I asked.

  Rúan pulled back to let one of the slaves pass by. “Yes. His father was a senator but Octavius doesn’t seem to be following in his footsteps. Instead he spends his money on parties and his time on sucking up to people close to Caesar. His wife is the one with the red hair.”

  “Is he from Baiae?”

  “Nay, from Rome. He has a summer villa here. I’ve never been to Rome, but I hear the summer is unbearable.”

  Rúan was right, summers in Rome were said to be miserable. As a result, Baiae had become a hotspot for the wealthy to bask in the sea breezes and spend time on the beaches in the summer.

  He continued, “Apicius doesn’t like Octavius, but he always says to keep your enemies close. I think they used to be good friends, but now everything between them is a competition.” Rúan rubbed his hands together. “Should I get the hams ready to go?”

  “Yes. I want them still hot when they arrive at the table.”

  When the hams were presented, Aelia laughed at their golden-brown bodies and the pastry snouts and ears.

  “I’m not sure I can eat this! What a marvel, Thrasius!” She reached forward and carefully detached one of the pig ears from its body and popped it into her mouth. She closed her eyes, savoring the crunchy pastry. “Well, perhaps I can!”

  I smiled and motioned for the scissor slave to start cutting up the rest of the hams into bite-size pieces.

  When the slave had finished cutting the meat and the diners were delighting in the dish, Apicius waved me over with one tanned arm high over his head. Turning back to his guests, Apicius gushed, “I must introduce you to my new coquus! Come here, Thrasius.”

  The smile he wore belied his earlier dour mood. He indicated a nearby stool and motioned for me to bring it to the table in the center, uncharacteristically closing off the U shape of the triclinium, a request that surprised me. The delicious smell wafting my way reminded me of my hunger and started my belly rumbling.

  “So this is your new acquisition,” Octavius said, eyeing me up and down. A little shiver ran down my spine. “I didn’t expect him to be so young. How many tricks can someone that age have up his sleeve?” He snickered.

  I said nothing and kept my eyes firmly fixed on a couch leg carved into a lion’s head and paw.

  “Yes, do tell us,” Popilla agreed, her tone caustic. “You can’t be more than fifteen. How do we know that this isn’t the only dinner you know how to prepare?”

  Apicius shot his mother a look that could have turned a basilisk to stone. The tension grew thick with the implied insult to her son. The eyes of the would-be suitor at her side grew wide at the exchange.

  “He is nearly twenty, mother. Thrasius, tell them where you learned your skills.” Apicius smiled at me but the warning note in his eye was clear.

  I drew in a breath. “I learned from Meton, the coquus to Flavius Maximus before me. I was in his kitchen for seven years. He took me under his wing when he saw that I had a talent for understanding spices. He taught me everythi
ng, but I always wanted to experiment. He was very old and as the years passed I did more and more of the cooking in Maximus’s kitchen. After Meton died, Maximus made me coquus. I was called coquus in his kitchen for eighteen months.” I did not add that Meton and Maximus were both like fathers to me and that I still greatly mourned their passing.

  “I’ve heard of Meton!” Trio exclaimed. “Remember when your sister stayed with us, Celera? She was raving about him. Said that he was the best cook she had ever encountered. Her husband was very jealous.”

  “Her husband was quite a gourmand, was he not?” Aelia asked.

  Apicius’s irritation had turned to delight. “One of the best palates in all of Rome, if I recall, right, Celera?”

  “Yes, may his genius live on—my brother-in-law is well missed.”

  To my relief, Fannia changed the subject. “This ham is delightful! The pastry is perfect, so crisp and flaky.” Her smile highlighted the wrinkles that lined her face. She was heavier than the other women and her dark reddish-brown wig was worn high on her head with curls that puffed out, making her head look as big as an overstuffed pillow. “I must have the recipe for my new cook. If I send over a wax tablet, could you have it transcribed for me?”

  “I have tablets, Fannia. And this boy can write the recipe himself. Isn’t that true, Thrasius?”

  “Yes, Dominus. I would be happy to write out the recipe.”

  “Who taught you how to write?” Popilla asked me, her mouth full of pork, and her tone accusatory.

  I had met women like her. No answer I gave was going to satisfy.

  Popilla eyed me, waiting for an answer. “Well?”

  I struggled to keep the revulsion out of my voice, finding it easier to look at Aelia as I spoke. Her calm demeanor diminished the horror I felt knowing that Popilla likely had arranged for the murder of my predecessor. “Maximus had me schooled to read and write Latin, Greek, Egyptian, and Spanish. I can also understand a little Persian. He thought everyone in his household should be educated.” I lowered my eyes to avoid Popilla’s critical stare.