He became reckless, drinking more than he had before, saying things he was once too reserved to say, and giving more and more lavish gifts to his guests. He also began to refuse my advice when I tried to curb his spending or if I gave suggestions on anything, even something as small as the color of napkins or the number of clients to invite to balance out a party.
Strangely, it was a little boy who set his mind to worrying about his money, or rather, his reputation in relation to money.
It happened on the night that a patrician friend, Gaius Plinius Celer, his wife, Marcella, and their twelve-year-old son came to dine with us. “My son is going to be a historian,” Celer said, motioning toward his young son, Gaius Plinius Secundus, whom they called Pliny. The boy had come as a shadow for his first adult meal outside the house. “He’s recording events for posterity’s sake.”
“I’m writing a history of the world and everything important,” the boy said solemnly. He was a wiry boy, as thin as a reed.
“Apicius is one of the most important men in Rome!” Marcella gushed. “He’s written dozens of cookbooks! You will have to include him in your history.”
The boy only nodded but the look on his face was thoughtful. I was surprised to see Apicius frown, as though he were worried what the child might think of him.
“Pliny, you must try the flamingo tongues—they are the most superb flavor! Here,” Apicius suddenly said to the boy, pointing at the platter of the pan-fried delicacies. “Once you have tasted them, you will feel as though Venus is smiling down on you from her throne of stars.”
A young boy nearly the same age, dressed like a cherub, held the tray in both hands out to Celer and to Pliny. The father closed his eyes as he savored the offered tidbit. “Quite delicious,” he agreed, sinking back against the couch. “Please, leave me some more.” He gestured for the slave to deposit a few of the crunchy tongues on his plate.
“Make sure you leave some room in your belly,” I said to the boy. “There is more to come.” He didn’t hear me. He had extracted a wax tablet from a pouch hanging from his tunic and was writing. I saw the words Apicius says flamingo tongues are of the most superb flavor. I had to smile. Pliny was off to a fine start recording the events around him. After the diners reduced the contents of the plates to crumbs and shells, I signaled for the slaves to remove the appetizers and bring in tray after tray of meats and vegetables. The first dish to arrive was a platter of mullet cooked in its own juice, followed by boiled partridge; chicken in fennel sauce; honeyed mushrooms; roasted wood pigeons; crane in a celery and mustard sauce; lentils with chestnuts; suckling pigs in pastry; and even a beautiful stuffed hare complete with wings I had taken from a dove, a tribute to the magnificent Pegasus.
Pliny continued writing on his tablet as the food arrived. While the scissor slave cut up the meat, the boy spoke up, his voice still high like a girl’s. “You spend a lot of money.”
It was directed at Apicius but it wasn’t a question, just an astute statement. Pliny’s father reddened and opened his mouth to say something, but Apicius spoke first.
He was smiling but I could tell he was irritated. He spoke to Pliny in the same voice he often used with his poorer clients—polite but with a hint of disdain. “Because I spend a lot of money you were able to have those flamingo tongues. You liked those, did you not?”
“Not really.” I barely choked back a laugh. Only a child could be so blunt. “Someday you might run out of money.”
A couple of the other guests gasped and this time Celer kicked Pliny hard in the leg. “No more talk from you. You have been disrespectful and we will discuss this later.”
A lilting voice lifted over the crowd, distracting our attention. “Apicius!”
Claudia, one of the other guests, reclined next to Marcella. Apicius turned his attention away from the boy and toward the women.
“I must inquire where you found these exquisite goblets! Certainly you did not find them at any local market. I have never seen such stone.”
“Nor would you,” Apicius said. It had been difficult to acquire the goblets and he loved to tell the story. “Early last year I ventured to Sicily, where I heard tale of a stone worker who had a talent for crafting the finest items out of opaque stone. I purchased all he had available, which included these goblets and the basin you saw in the entryway. It took the stone worker ten years to make them!”
It took a lot to keep from rolling my eyes. It had taken only ten weeks to make the set but Apicius was forever embellishing his stories. He had become worse in the last few months.
She fluttered her eyes at Apicius. “What a shame. I had hoped to flatter you with a copy on my own table.”
“Claudia, you flatter me merely by asking!”
The conversation turned to other things. Apicius leaned over to me. “Have the basin sent as a gift to Claudia on the morrow, will you?”
I squinted at him, puzzled, but Apicius had already looked back toward the other diners. I saw, with some measure of amusement, that Pliny had heard our exchange and that Apicius was watching the boy write furiously on his tablet.
? ? ?
After the diners had left he pulled me into the library. “Have you seen the books lately? Where do we stand?”
I was shocked. For years I had been trying to get my former master to pay attention to the amount of money he spent and now he was asking me because he was worried about what a boy was writing on a wax tablet?
“Why are you concerning yourself about money now, Apicius? You have never cared before.”
“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.