Aelia beamed but Apicius said nothing, only gestured for a servant to refill their wine. He tilted his glass in a toast, then downed it fast, as though he hoped the wine would wash everything away.
Despite that bitter moment, the rest of the party was lovely. My cherubs and nymphs wove through the crowd with trays of food and glasses of wine cut with water by Trio, whom Apicius had asked to be the Magister of Revels. The highlight was Ovid. He was a striking man with sandy-brown hair framing a boyish face, despite his middling age. It was no wonder all the women in Rome fell at his feet.
Ovid cleared his throat and a hush fell upon the garden. “I have heard my host has a young daughter with a hound by the name of Perseus.”
Aelia cried out in excitement.
“I am working on a book of the great tales of all the gods. I am not far along, but I can tell you this story, of the great Perseus for which Apicata’s pet is named. This portion of the poem occurs right after his triumph over the monstrous gorgon Medusa. Perseus asked Atlas for a night’s rest but Atlas, wary of an old prophecy that said the son of Jove would overthrow him, refused.”
Ovid took a sip of wine and began, his voice rising above the clusters of guests standing around the garden.
But Atlas, mindful of an oracle
from Themis, of Parnassus,
recalled these words, “O Atlas! mark the day
a son of Jupiter shall come to spoil;
for when thy trees been stripped of golden fruit,
the glory shall be his.”
Fearful of this,
Atlas had built solid walls around
his orchard, and secured a dragon, huge,
that kept perpetual guard, and thence expelled
all strangers from his land. Wherefore he said,
“Begone! The glory of your deeds is all
pretense; even Jupiter, will fail your need.”
Thus Perseus was forced to fight the great Atlas, and realizing he could not win, he brought the gorgon’s head forward and turned Atlas to stone, fulfilling the prophecy.
I thought back to the reading Apicius had received the day he purchased me. For some reason, it seemed to be a marker for my master, a prophecy of a sort. I wondered if, like Atlas, it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy. “Ultimately, you will be judged in the Underworld by how our world and the world of the future perceive you.” I’d often heard Apicius repeating that last line. In the years since the reading he had shaped his life in relation to those words. He was obsessed with creating a life that would render him memorable to all.
I peered across the garden to where Sotas stood in the shadows. Sotas might be able to protect Apicius from all outwardly harm, but I doubted anyone could protect Apicius from himself.
PART IV
4 C.E. to 5 C.E.
PATINA OF PEARS
Core and boil the pears, pound them with pepper, cumin, honey, passum, liquamen, and a little oil. Add eggs to make a patina, sprinkle with pepper, and serve.
—Book 4.2.35, Compound Dishes
On Cookery, Apicius
CHAPTER 10
Now that we were in Rome, Apicius became more focused on public appearances, enlarging and redesigning his villa, including expanding the snow cellar at great expense. He gave me funds to purchase additional slaves for the kitchens in both Rome and Minturnae to accommodate the larger parties we hosted. His name was bandied about among Rome’s finest. That summer he hosted many influential patricians, including the governors of Egypt and Carthage, who were both in Rome for the ceremony honoring Caesar’s adoption of Livia’s son, Tiberius, as heir.
When I could, I continued to work on the cookbook. The task was harder than I’d first imagined. Sometimes one recipe would take me weeks to perfect. Only then could I inscribe the recipes onto the page. Fortunately, Apicius took to the idea of a cookbook like snails to milk.
“Only the best, Thrasius, only the best,” Apicius said one afternoon, nearly a year after I first showed him all the recipes. He clapped me on the back as I unpacked a crate of wine just delivered from Greece. “This book will make many a new chef into demigods of their masters’ kitchens, but none of them will be able to truly re-create what I am doing, Thrasius. No one else will have this wine, or the same pine nuts from Sardinia. Or the same green walnuts, gathered in the moonlight during the feast of Fortuna! Their wine will be plonk, their pine nuts from the trees in their backyard, their green walnuts fallen and dark. They will think they are tasting a bit of Elysium, but only diners at my table will know true ambrosia!”
I had to bite my tongue when he talked like that, as though the recipes were his doing, not mine.
“You are his,” Passia told me matter-of-factly one afternoon when I was ranting about my master’s claim to the recipes I had so painstakingly researched. “Therefore the recipes are his.” She stroked my hair, soothing me. “Until you have your freedom, all you do is his. You have what many would sell their souls to Pluto for. Take your happiness where you can. Do not whine like a child over that which you cannot change.”
She was right. Apicius treated me well and he gave me great freedom to explore what I loved most—cooking. Few slaves had such opportunities.
We began to travel every few weeks, seeking out the best ingredients for the recipes. At first the trips were an adventure. I missed Passia very much, but I was also secretly pleased that my master felt such dedication to the recipes I devised. We went to Egypt, where we found a recipe for bottle gourds; in Sicily we learned an old olive relish recipe; in Byzantium we discovered salted tunny fish; and in Syria we purchased huge jars of the juiciest dates I have ever eaten.
Still, while I freely admit that I enjoyed access to such luxury for my cooking, I worried about my dominus’s obsession, mostly because it rarely went well for those around him. Apicius spent great amounts of time and money on luxuries that did not turn out to be what he thought they would. Which is what happened the time we went to the northern coast of Africa.
We were in Minturnae, spending a few weeks near the shore, when I learned of the trip. It was time for the salutatio and Apicius had seen only a handful of his clients. Apollo’s chariot was not even high in the sky and already the heat was unbearable. I was looking forward to taking a few moments to stand in the snow cellar to cool off.