Feast of Sorrow: A Novel of Ancient Rome
Crystal King
For Joe, who always saves me
PART I
1 B.C.E. to 1 C.E.
TRAVELER’S HONEYED WINE
A long-lasting honeyed wine, which is served to travelers on the road: you put ground pepper with skimmed honey in a small cask instead of spiced wine, and as required, you pour out as much honey and mix with it as much wine as is to be drunk; but if you use a thin-necked vessel, you put a little wine in the honey mixture. Add enough for the honey to pour freely.
—Book 1.1.2, Mise en Place On Cookery, Apicius
CHAPTER 1
Marcus Gavius Apicius purchased me on a day hot enough to fry sausage on the market stones. It was the twenty-sixth year of Augustus Caesar’s reign. I was nineteen and I’d been put up for sale at the slave auction in Baiae after three months under Titus Atilius Bulbus, a fat, swarthy beast I was glad never to see again. I thanked the gods for the day Bulbus realized that a good cook was worth ten times his weight in denarii and decided it was more advantageous to sell me than to sleep with me.
Midmorning, the slave master, a heavy man with a barrel-shaped torso supported by birdlike legs, shuffled me toward an empty pen at the end of the slave platform. He brought a stool so I didn’t have to sit on the dusty ground as two haggard old women scrubbed my naked body until not a trace of grime lingered on my skin. They trimmed my hair and scraped off my beard, leaving me cleaner than I’d been in months.
From my bench in the new pen, I heard my future master before I saw him.
“Ah, Master Apicius,” the slaver said in a simpering voice unlike the one with which he usually barked out commands at his slaves. “I am glad you are here. I have two others inquiring about the cook. I hoped you would arrive first.”
“Where is he?” Apicius asked, his voice a smooth baritone.
There was a rustle of tent flaps and the slap of sandals on the hot stones. I scrambled to my feet as they rounded the corner and came into view. Apicius looked about a decade older than me, with dark hair and an aquiline nose typical of a long Roman bloodline. An extraordinarily tall Egyptian with wick-black hair and biceps the size of ham hocks hovered in the background. I surmised that he was Apicius’s body-slave—the personal attendant who accompanied him everywhere.
The slaver opened the door to the pen and yanked me out to stand in front of Apicius, who took appraisal of my naked body, noting with his eyes that my head was bare. “No cap.” He nodded his approval. The lack of a slave cap meant the fat slave master would guarantee me for six months. It also meant I was worth more.
Apicius lifted the bronze plaque around my neck, freshly polished and etched with my credentials and history of ownership. I would wear it every day of my life as a slave. “Free of illness. Does not steal. Good, good. Thrasius, eh? That’s a Greek name.”
I nodded, unsure if I should speak.
“You were the coquus to Flavius Maximus?” Apicius let go of the plaque and it slapped against my chest. “Interesting. I dined with Maximus a few months before his death. We had sausages of pheasant, sweet melon relish, and a patina of small fry. Was that your doing?”
I gathered my courage and hoped my voice did not shake. I remembered that patina—an egg custard of which Maximus was quite fond. “Yes. The sweet melon relish was something new that I was trying.”
“How long did you work for Maximus?”
“I ran his kitchen for a year before he died. He was fond of entertaining.” My mind raced. Apicius was certainly interested in my cooking but what if this man was as cruel as Bulbus?
Apicius raised an eyebrow at me. “Can you make roasted peacock?”
“Yes. I have a recipe for peacock with damson raisins soaked in myrtle wine. It works equally well with partridge or duck. I’m sure you would find the dish to your liking.” I wiped sweat off my brow.
“What do you consider your specialty?”
“There are three,” I answered, raising my voice in order to be heard over the din of the market. “My ham in pastry, with honey and figs, has often been praised, but I have been told it is equaled by my truffles with pepper, mint, and rue. I can also make you a dish of roasted salt belly pork with a special mixture of garum, cumin, and lovage.”
Apicius smiled and started to ask another question. But the slave master was growing impatient. “The boy will make you famous,” he whispered to Apicius. “With him cooking, you will have clients and friends lining up in the morning, begging for a spot at one of your cenae!” He paused. Apicius glowed.
The slave master continued, “His talents go beyond that of the kitchen. He can read and write, he is excellent at figures, and he speaks several languages. This is the coquus for you!”
“Famous?”
The slave master cocked his head and smiled. “Most definitely.”
I expected Apicius to ignore the slaver’s words. Yet he asked my price of the slave master and the answer shocked me. Twenty thousand denarii! Slaves rarely sold for more than a few hundred denarii.
“Sotas!” Apicius beckoned to the body-slave. Disapproval briefly flashed across Sotas’s features as he stepped forward with a bag.
Apicius opened the bag to reveal several gold aurei, then laid the heavy pouch in the slaver’s dark calloused hand. “The argentarii know me well,” he said, gesturing in the direction of two men standing under a small canopy at the corner of the slave market. As representatives of the Roman bank, the argentarii were responsible for officiating over the larger sales, verifying credit, and making sure transactions went smoothly. “They will sign my letter of credit for the rest.”
The slave master grinned. He had profited heavily.
I would later learn that my selling price was more than all the other slaves sold that morning combined.
? ? ?
After the slave master had removed my shackles and thrown a threadbare tunic at me, Apicius motioned for me to follow. Sotas followed behind.
As we made our way through the Baiae streets, I could sense unease in my new dominus. Perhaps he was having second thoughts about the high price he paid for me.
When he spoke it was with impatience. “Tonight I’m having a small cena with a few close friends. Tell me what you will make for the meal.”
I faltered at my new master’s words. I gazed up at the laundry lines strung between the insulae we walked past, with colorful stolae hanging out to dry. The sun was already past its apex.
“I am unsure of the staples in your kitchen.” I kept my eyes down. My stomach churned as if I had eaten a rotten apple.
Apicius stepped around a small group of boys playing a game of knucklebones. “Never mind that. If you had any ingredient at your disposal, what would you make?”
“You said it was a small dinner?”