“No, no! From the animals!”
My interest was piqued. What I wouldn’t give for some of the rare meat distributed after a match! Meat from bears, tigers, rhinoceros, and other exotic animals killed in the height of battle was highly prized due to the heated blood that ran through the veins when the beast perished. I wanted the chance to serve up such delicacies.
“I have an in with the right people at the games,” Octavius bragged.
“Of course you do,” Apicius said dismissively. “Trio, do you go to the games often?”
“I do! If you come to Rome I can promise you excellent seats, not far from Livia and Augustus!”
Apicius smiled widely at his Roman friend, ignoring Fannia’s small groan of derision at the mention of her cousin’s name. “I would love to go to the games with you, Trio. I would absolutely love to.”
“All this heavy food has made me weary,” Octavius said loudly, interjecting himself into the conversation. To me he didn’t look weary, only bored.
His body-slave rushed forward to help Octavius off the couch. He took his leave of the party and Sotas stepped forward to escort him out of the house. Before he left he turned his head to where I stood in the kitchen doorway. Subtly, so that Apicius and the rest of the dining guests could not see, he raised his hand slightly and gave me a one-finger salute. I instinctively tucked my body back into the kitchen, and quickly sent a prayer off to Jupiter, for protection from that terrible envy, Invidia.
When I glanced back, he was gone. My heart hammered within my chest. I had only just met the man but already he felt angered and threatened by me. It seemed the rivalry between Apicius and Octavius was deeper than Sotas had let on.
PART II
1 C.E. to 2 C.E.
PEACOCK MEATBALLS
Peacock meatballs rank in the first place, provided they are fried until they burst their skins. Pheasant meatballs rank in the second place, then rabbit third, then chicken fourth, and tender young pork ones are fifth.
—Book 2.2.6, Meat Dishes On Cookery, Apicius
CHAPTER 4
We didn’t see Octavius much in the following years. He went to Rome, where he quickly climbed the patrician ranks, which irked my master to no end. But I had a bigger concern—Popilla. She took every opportunity to make my life miserable.
She kept the worst of her torments for when Apicius was not around. She was fond of having her lackey, a burly house guard whose name I never learned, administer the lash.
Seven months after my purchase, Apicius went to his villa in Minturnae for a few days. On the fifth day he was gone, Popilla decided that I did not add enough garum to a dish of lamb.
“This is the most miserable piece of meat I have ever eaten!” she screamed, picking up the pieces on her plate and flinging them across the triclinium. The scissor slave who had been cutting up her meat backed away and cowered in the corner.
I stood in the corridor ready to send in my serving boy, Tycho, with the next course. At her scream, little Tycho tilted the plate of mustard beans he was carrying and they skittered in slimy trails all over the floor. He immediately burst into tears, terrified of the beating he might receive. I took the plate from his hand.
“Back to the kitchen, hurry,” I said, just loud enough for him to hear. I did not want him to be the one to receive the lash.
I stepped around him and entered the room, wondering if this night would be my last. Each day of Apicius’s absence Popilla had grown even bolder.
“You! Not only are you a terrible coquus but you are a clumsy oaf too! You can’t even hold a plate steady. Are your hands broken? No? Perhaps if they were you would have an excuse for your mediocrity!”
I saw her chin jerk toward her guard and next thing I knew I felt the lash upon my back. The plate crashed to the ground, and when I fell, the terra-cotta shards tore into the skin of my chin and chest. The guard kicked me. I felt the lash tear into my back again and the world swam for a second, then went black.
I did not see or hear what happened next, but, fortunately for me, and for my hands, Apicius had come home early. A screaming match ensued as well as a few brutal slaps to Popilla’s harpy face. Rúan told me about it the next day when he came to see me as I lay curled on my pallet, bruised and sporting many cuts that would turn to scars. It was a week before I could return to the kitchen. I hated Popilla more than I had ever hated anyone and I wished every day for her disappearance from the earth.
? ? ?
Aside from the troubles with Popilla, my time in Apicius’s kitchen passed as fast as an eastern wind over the ocean. My work was hard but I felt very alive then, more so than I ever had. Rúan and I became fast friends and his presence by my side at each meal was part of my early success. We seemed to inherently understand each other and his love of cooking was surpassed only by mine. Some of my most classic dishes were developed with his collaboration.
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.