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.
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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.
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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 torchlight 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?”