Feast of Sorrow Read online

  Rúan greatly missed Hibernia, his country in the north, which he called Ériu. While I had only ever known life as a slave, he was captured as a youth and his desire to be free was still strong within him. Sometimes we would daydream what it would be like to be the master, not the slave.

  “But who would cook?” I once asked. “I do not think I could trust a slave.”

  Rúan laughed, his deep chuckle reverberating through the kitchen. “Aye, you are right. We have high standards, my friend. Who on the gods’ green earth could cook a meal as fine as ours?”

  Our meals were fine indeed. I often cooked around a specific theme, whether it be only foods from the sea, foods that began with a certain letter, or perhaps those that came from a certain region. I was adamant that the servants who delivered the food were both pleasing to the eye and able to serve the dishes with incredible precision and flair. The music that accompanied the meal had to create a specific ambience. The actors and acrobats I hired were elegant even when comedic. But the centerpiece of everything was, for me and for Apicius, the food. And while my master loved my cooking and believed I worked hard out of loyalty and dedication, in truth, it was my own pride that drove me in the kitchen. I was only a slave, but in this I knew I had great power. I experimented ruthlessly, tweaking recipes to highlight and bring out the finest flavors. I wanted, perhaps too much, for everything to be perfect.

  It was not long before Apicius’s parties became the talk of Baiae. His couches were always full. I took great pleasure when I would walk to the market to make a purchase and overhear a passerby talking about how very much he would like an invitation to dine with Apicius. My dominus began to brag about my skills in the kitchen to all he knew.

  I had asked for success on my first day and for that I kept my promise to the Lares. Every day I offered up a honey cake for their favor. It’s a promise I held to for many years, until the day I knew beyond all doubt that the haruspex’s words had not been false.

  • • •

  I had a greater devotee than Apicius, however, in his little girl, five-year-old Apicata. She was bubbly and vivacious, with a head of chestnut-brown curls that always seemed to be in disarray, and she loved the little animals I carved for her out of radishes and parsnips. Every time I saw her she asked if I would make her some new animal with her next meal. I was only too happy to oblige. I saw her nearly every day, which meant that I saw Passia every day as well. When I saw the flash of her stola in the entryway, my heart would beat like a temple drum.

  Passia! Her name was a song in my mind. Whenever she came into the kitchen I thought I might faint with desire. Everything about her was perfect. Her long auburn hair was perfect against her tanned skin. Her eyes were a perfect ebony brown, her wrists perfect and delicate, her voice a melody that I wished I could hear every waking moment of my life.

  She wanted nothing to do with me.

  Months passed, and no matter how often I tried to strike up a conversation when she came to the kitchen to eat or to pick up a tray for Apicata, nothing I did or said could convince her to share more than a few words with me. If I saw her in other parts of the domus, she walked by, eyes on the tiles. I stopped her once on my way back from the Lares shrine, but she only glared at me and turned in the other direction.

  I tried to casually ask Sotas about her but he saw right through me. “Give up now, Coquus. She is the dream of every slave in this household. In her mind you are no different. She wants nothing to do with any of you.”

  Eventually I stopped asking her questions. I spoke to her only when she spoke to me or I needed to tell her something about the food she was taking to Apicata. I carved her roses out of radishes every day and placed them on every plate she picked up. She said nothing. She too thought I carved them for little Apicata.

  • • •

  Apicius saw the roses as a complement to the dishes I cooked and soon was asking me to carve more elaborate designs out of gourds and other vegetables. He often remarked on my talent with the carving knife. However, despite the success of our banquets, it wasn’t easy working for Apicius. I made a few mistakes early on, like dropping a platter full of fritters all over the kitchen floor when he made a surprise visit, or forgetting to add salt to a dish. In the beginning, my dominus was very harsh with me. I discovered that he was prone to wide shifts in mood. One moment he would be kind and giving to everyone around him and the next he was instructing Sotas to administer the lash. I didn’t speak much at first, preferring to err on the side of caution, but as I grew to know my dominus better, I learned how to discern his intent and how to avoid scars on my back. Eventually he became more forgiving even when I did make mistakes, provided they weren’t any that might embarrass him in front of others.

  The first time Apicius joined me in the kitchen was disconcerting. It was late afternoon, a few hours before the evening cena. I was preparing a date sauce for a roasted lamb shoulder. I had just begun chopping up the onions, carrots, and parsnips when my master arrived in the kitchen. He strode over to my table and gave me a big grin.

  “Pass me a knife, boy.”

  I backed up a step.

  “No, no.” He laughed. “Close that mouth, you’ll catch flies. I don’t want to kill you; I want to chop those carrots.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. My master wanted to help me chop carrots?

  Apicius laughed. “Hand me a knife, Thrasius.”

  I pushed the knife I had in my hand across the table. He picked it up and began chopping the thick white vegetables as though he had worked in a kitchen all his life.

  “Don’t just stand there.” He gestured with the knife. “That onion isn’t going to chop itself.”

  I chuckled nervously, took up another knife, and started to chop.

  “You are wondering why I’m chopping vegetables with you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “The thought had crossed my mind, Dominus.”

  He pushed the chopped carrot to the side and took up the parsnips. “When I am in the kitchen, making food, it is as though the gods are with me.”

  “What do you mean, Dominus?” I was not accustomed to asking my master questions, but Apicius seemed to be inviting conversation.

  “I feel a sense of calmness, of true competence, infusing me. The same energy fills me when I am chopping and stirring, or when I discover a new wine vintage. Such culinary experiences bring me great pleasure.”

  “I think I understand,” I said. I wasn’t lying. I did know that sense of flow. It overtook me too when I cooked.

  “I used to cook often with Paetas, when he was alive.”

  “I am honored to have you cook with me,” I ventured, unsure how my words would be received. Was I being presumptuous?

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  “We need to grind some pepper.” I pushed the mortar toward him, then poured a generous handful of peppercorns into the stone basin.

  “And silphium?”

  I gave him a genuine smile then. Silphium was a precious herb I used in many of my dishes, but in recent years it had become quite scarce and costly. It had a taste that was reminiscent of leeks, garlic, and fennel, but smoother and more aromatic. It was one of Apicius’s favorite flavors.

  “Definitely silphium.”

  After that time in the kitchen, Apicius came to work with me often, usually on days when guests had not been invited to cena. He loved to cook nearly as much as I did and cared not what anyone said of him. He even occasionally bragged to his guests of his skill with a knife or how he was looking for the perfect way to meld the flavors of a new sauce. He seemed happiest when he was cooking, and there was a kindness to him that was not as evident when I served him outside the kitchen.

  “Ambrosial!” Apicius said to me yet again one afternoon as we chopped beets for the evening meal.

  The knife revealed dark rings with every slice. There was something precious to me about black food—sinister yet seductive. Oh, how the beet juice would look in glass goblets, the t
orchlight glinting off the black surface! Apicius loved beet juice, and the rumors about its powers as an aphrodisiac were always a wonderful source of conversation with his guests.

  Apicius’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts.

  “Popilla . . . she’s left you well enough alone?”

  I hesitated, trying to find the words to be judicious. While I knew that Apicius also did not like his mother, I was a slave, and to be critical of any matron was not wise. I didn’t dare mention that when I did cross her path she called me vulgar names and told me all the ways she’d cursed me.

  “I try to stay out of her way,” I said truthfully. “She complains about most of the food sent to her room even though she eats half of it before she sends it back.”

  “I don’t understand why someone doesn’t want the ridiculous dowry I have offered up. Do so many others know how awful she is?” he muttered as he sliced the beets with a vengeance.

  “Watch your fingers, Dominus!”

  He slowed his chopping. “You can’t trust her. Be careful.” He set the knife down. “I have another matter to discuss. Thanks to you, I now have a new problem to manage.”

  A knot of worry took hold of my stomach. I prided myself on not inciting more of my master’s wrath than a cuff on the back of the head. Apicius was mostly fair, but I learned early on that it would not do to cross him; in that regard he was similar to his mother. Only a week before, one of the slaves carrying Apicius’s litter had stumbled on a rock and Apicius had Sotas beat him in public in the center of Baiae. I ran through last week’s menus in my mind, trying to remember if anything had gone wrong.

  I wiped my hands on a towel. “Dominus, I work hard to do your bidding. I have never wanted to be a problem to you. Please tell me what I can do to be better in your service.”

  Apicius smiled. “You mistake my words. My problem is a happy one. You see, I have to figure out how I can keep track of the long list of clients and associates wanting a dinner invite! Everyone is talking about you. I can’t go anywhere without someone asking me what new succulent dishes my coquus has devised!”

  The pressure in my chest eased.

  “I want you to help me manage my clients. Up until now I’ve not needed to worry. I know my secretary could help me keep track, but I think that you, as the keeper of my kitchen and the source of my guests’ delight, should have a say in helping me make the right determinations. In my mind the coordination of the guests is as important as the coordination of the food. I know how you work. Your mind is strong and nothing escapes you. My secretary is good at figures but not at the nuances of understanding people, food, and feast. We’ll start at the salutatio. I’ll inform him that he will train you.”

  Apicius was asking me to take on one of the most important roles in the household—advising him about clients during their morning visits.

  “Are you sure, Dominus? I have never served in that capacity before. I’m just a cook.”

  Apicius raised an eyebrow at me. “You are more than a cook. You are the key to my success. It’s time for you to demonstrate just how much.”

  I gripped the edge of the counter to steady myself. For a master to give so much credit to a slave was unheard of. While a part of me was pleased, another part was terrified at the task he was suggesting.

  “Rúan can manage the morning meal. On feast days one of my secretaries can step in to advise me so you can be in the kitchen, but on most mornings, I want you by my side.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I was surprised at how happy I was at his words. I knew managing his client affairs alongside meals would be a great deal of work, but it seemed to me more of a reward than I had ever had before.

  For the first time in my life I thought there might be something greater in my future than working hard as a kitchen slave, toiling for my monthly peculium until I turned thirty-five, and would, at the mercy of my master, be eligible for manumission.

  “I am honored, Dominus.” I didn’t trust myself to say anything more.

  “Good. I feel good about this, Thrasius.”

  After we sliced up the rest of the vegetables, I showed Apicius one of the recipes I had in mind, beet leaves stuffed with a mixture of chopped leeks, coriander, cumin, and raisins, bound together with a bit of flour and water. Together we tied up the leaves into small bundles, which would be boiled when it was closer to the dinner hour. At the evening’s convivium, they would be served in a sauce of liquamen, oil, and vinegar.

  When we had finished tying off the last of the beet bundles, Passia came into the kitchen, Apicata in tow. My heart raced.

  “I’m hungry!” Apicata declared. Her dark hair was pulled back into a braid and tied with saffron-colored ribbons, her blue tunica marred by smudges of dirt. I smiled. Even children of nobility liked to play in the mud.

  “You are always hungry!” Apicius said, his deep voice booming. “It’s as though I sired a bear, not a daughter!”

  “I’m not a bear!” She placed her hands on her hips.

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. “I know what will help,” I said, picking up a nearby radish. I began carving it into a rose with delicate petals. Although they had seen me carve vegetables before, Apicius, Passia, and Apicata sat in rapt attention as I turned several of the radishes into flowers.

  “A beautiful lady should have beautiful flowers.” I placed a small cluster of radish flowers in Apicata’s hand. On impulse, I presented one of the radish flowers to Passia. Much to my disappointment, she handed it to Apicata.

  Apicata was delighted. “Are you sure I can eat these? They’re so pretty!”

  “Eat up, sweet one. And if you ask, I am sure Thrasius will make a pear patina tonight.” Apicius’s voice always held a special warmth when he addressed his daughter.

  “Please, Thrasius! I love it when you make the pears pretty!”

  I laughed at her description of the fruit, honey, and egg dish. I always added an extra layer of pears on top, and I had to admit, they did look pretty once they were cooked and shining with oil. “I would be pleased to make that for you, little Domina.”

  Spontaneously, Apicata ran around the table and gave me a big hug. She ran back to Passia and together they left the kitchen.

  “She likes you,” Apicius observed. He took off the apron protecting his tunic and laid it on the counter.

  “She is charming,” I replied, though I wished Apicius had been talking about Passia. “She reminds me of my sister.” Or at least she reminded me of what I thought I remembered about the little girl whom I was separated from so long ago. I was a twin, born to a slave woman who died in childbirth and whose name I never knew. My sister and I were raised by another slave in a respected domus in Pompeii until we were four. When that patrician died, the household slaves were willed to several different relatives and we were separated. I don’t know what happened to her.

  “And you. You like Passia.” Apicius fingered one of the carved radishes that hadn’t fit into Apicata’s hand.

  I froze, unsure of what to say.

  What Apicius said next shocked me more than if Jupiter himself had appeared in the kitchen.

  “I will let Passia know she is to make herself available to you as you desire.”

  I dropped my knife. It clattered to the floor with a noise that caught the attention of a few nearby slaves.

  “Careful there. You wouldn’t want to stab one of your feet, or something worse,” Apicius said with a hint of amusement in his voice.

  “You are right, Dominus,” I said, bending to pick up the knife. “I’ll be more careful.” I could feel my face on fire.

  • • •

  I did not sleep with the other slaves in the high reaches of the domus. Instead I had my own cubiculum on the ground floor not far from the kitchen. It was one way that my master doted on me; he always said that he wanted me well rested, not kept awake by whispers and snores of other slaves. It was why I was startled that night when the door to my cubiculum creaked. I was not accustomed t
o the sounds of others in my room. I slid my hand under my pillow to grasp the knife I kept there. I opened my eyes to the soft light of an oil lamp piercing the darkness.

  Passia. I let go of the knife. My heart pounding, I sat up.

  She shut the door behind her and put her lamp on the table next to my bed. My every nerve tingled with anticipation upon seeing her closer in the lamplight, her hair cascading down around her face.

  Wordlessly she lifted her thin shift up and over her head until she stood naked before me. I was light-headed. She was far more beautiful than I had imagined all those nights in the dark, alone with my hand beneath the blankets. Her body was shapelier than any statue of Venus, breasts firm and taut, with hardened nipples that stood out from a swirl of dark amber. The heart of hair between her legs beckoned me, and when she moved toward the bed, my body responded. All my limbs seemed to reach toward her, desiring to twine around and through her, to converge in a haze headier than any opiate or honeyed wine.

  She pulled the blankets down to the end of the bed and looked me over. Then, slowly, her face devoid of emotion, she leaned down and her hand reached out to touch my chest. A shudder of pleasure swept through me. Surely I was dreaming.

  She ran her hand across my chest and between my legs, where I was already hard and willing. I gasped when she curled her hand around my penis. I reached up to touch her but she pulled back so that her breast was out of reach.

  “Please, come here,” I breathed, holding out my hands, willing her to move toward me.

  She did not.

  Despite the intense pleasure that was radiating through me, I also felt an underlying current of sadness. She didn’t want me to touch her.

  Apicius’s words came back to me. “I will let Passia know she is to make herself available . . .”

  I leaned forward and put my hand over hers, stopping her movement. It took everything I had not to let her keep going. The flickering shadow of her breast on the wall nearly did me in.