It was four months before we were ready to open the doors to guests of our first Roman cena. My master was delighted to be entertaining once more, but not all of his slaves were as enthusiastic.
“I don’t want to fight with you. Please, Balsamea. It’s such a small thing for me to ask.” I placed a white scarf on the table in front of her. Lately she had decided that she no longer wanted to pull her hair back.
“I like it the way I used to wear it, before you.” The aged slave stared at me.
I didn’t understand this new defiance of hers. Her age was catching up to her and of late her behavior had become more erratic. I tried a different tactic. “It’s a big night for Apicius and we’ve no time to waste. Don’t make me wish I had left you in Baiae.”
I was determined that this night would run smoothly. I pushed the scarf toward Balsamea once more.
Balsamea reluctantly reached for the cloth. “Dominus is fretting a bit overmuch,” she grumbled as she began pulling back her hair.
“I know. But he wants to make an impression.”
“By getting them all drunk? Some impression.”
I had to smile. “Everyone loves to get drunk, isn’t that true?”
“Not everyone loves to clean it up.” She looked at me square in the eye, a small warning that she would not be pleased if that was what she ended up doing. She knotted the scarf around her hair.
“Thank you.”
Balsamea grunted and returned to the task of weaving laurel leaves, roses, and hazel flowers into the many wreaths we would need for the evening.
I spent a few minutes directing other slaves preparing for that evening’s commissatio before taking up my own knife to chop up the bundles of lovage, dill, thyme, and sage. The aromas wafted up as I chopped and lost myself in the rapid slices of the knife.
I thought about the party ahead. I agreed with Balsamea’s concerns. At first, I was nervous about Apicius starting out in Rome with a drinking party instead of a traditional dinner. While imbibing was something of a pastime in the tourist town of Baiae, I assumed that Caesar Augustus’s austerity would hold more sway in Rome. But Apicius wanted to invite as many people as possible. He had many potential clients in Rome as well as a few of his own patrons. Narrowing down the guest list to nine or eighteen would have been nearly impossible. Not that it was difficult for me to change my mind once I started thinking of all the possibilities for the party.
We decided to hold a commissatio with wine and amusements, but also a special treat, a gustatio that would let visitors sample the dishes of which Apicius and I were particularly proud. While it was somewhat unheard of to mix the courses of wine and food, eventually I was able to convince Apicius to serve small bites of food before the commissatio. My argument was that if the visitors sampled the dishes, Apicius would be able to gather clients and patrons who would look to future seats at his table. Apicius had agreed, especially after I explained how I would dress the young boys as cupids and the girls as nymphs. I made a sticky mock ambrosia cake from honey and apples, to be served by one of the prettiest slaves, dressed as a handmaiden to Venus. I hoped when people left they would be raving about both the atmosphere and the food.
“I came to go over the menu,” Apicius said, jolting me out of my thoughts. He was like an eager child just given a fresh plum. Sotas settled onto a stool near the door and raised a hand in greeting.
“Of course. I can make a variety of dishes and cut them up for easy sampling. I wanted to start with roasted hyacinth bulbs, some soft cheese drenched in raisin wine with bread, and slices of sow’s udder with garum and lovage. I thought we could serve the Lucanian sausage I made earlier this week. And remember my hard egg mice with the almond ears and the clove eyes? I think those might go over well.”
“Perfect! The mice will delight the ladies!” I was relieved to see he was in a good mood.
“What about those delicious fried hare livers you make? Send one of the boys to the market if you need hares.”
I pushed the cut herbs into a small bowl. “I can do that. What about the cabbage?”
At the mention of the cabbage, Sotas shifted in his chair and the scraping noise caused me to look over at the big slave. He waved his hand in front of his nose in disgust. I had to agree. Apicius had been obsessed with cabbage of late and had combed all of Rome for recipes I might test and modify. In the last months the two of us had cooked more cabbage than I ever cared to see—or smell—again. Plus, I wasn’t sure the ages-old belief that cabbage would prevent hangovers held any truth.
“Of course!” Apicius went to the vegetable baskets on the shelves and selected five cabbages.
Together we chopped up cabbage and discussed the wine service. “Who will you choose as rex bibendi?” I asked, wondering who Apicius had in mind for the honored position of Magister of Revels. The Magister was an important figure at any party, responsible for diluting the wine, leading the libation hymn, and watching the quantity of alcohol consumed by the guests, making sure no one got too much or too little. The Magister was also in charge of directing conversation, deciding if games got too out of hand—in short, keeping the peace. “You need someone who can be both merry and diplomatic in guiding the conversation.”
“Yes. It’s a tough decision. There are too many people attending to decide by throw of the dice.” Apicius dropped a handful of cabbage into the crackling oil.
“What about Aelia’s cousin Lucius Aelius Sejanus, for example. I know him not but Domina speaks well of him. Would he make a good Magister?”
Apicius wrinkled his nose, as though he were recalling something distasteful. I wondered if I had somehow made him angry. Finally, he said, “It’s rumored that he likes to enjoy his drink at parties. I may not want to confine him to such a role. Let’s not worry. Fortuna has been kind to me thus far, and I think she will be again. I’ll consider it later.”
When Apicius talked of Sejanus the tone of his voice had changed, taking on a worried lilt. I glanced over at Sotas. The big man shook his head in warning. Clearly Sejanus had not been a good suggestion. I wondered why.
Apicata burst into the kitchen in a squeal of laughter, a swirl of colored ribbons braided into the dark hair flying behind her. Sotas stood in deference to the young mistress but she sailed by him without a glance. Passia smiled at Sotas, patting his arm as she passed through the doorway into the kitchen. She was breathing hard, likely from having run the length of the house trying to catch up to Apicata.
“Father, Father, can I come to the cena?” Apicata stood at the table on tiptoes, looking up at us with wide doe eyes.
“I’m sorry, Dominus. I did try to explain it was a party for grown-ups,” Passia said.
Apicius reached over the table and affectionately tweaked Apicata’s nose. “It’s not a cena, my little one. It’s a commissatio. Guess how many people can come to a commissatio?”