“Spit it out. What has happened? Where is Aelia?” Without waiting for an answer Apicius stormed off in the direction of Aelia’s rooms. Sotas and I hurried after.
“Dominus, please, wait!” Rúan called after Apicius.
Apicius spun on his heel. “Slave, where in Tartarus is my wife?”
Rúan halted a few paces away—out of reach. “She went back to Rome.”
I had wondered why Passia had not come to greet me. Now I knew. A wave of sadness washed through me with the realization that I would not see my lover that night.
“What do you mean she went back to Rome?”
“When she found out you had left for Libya, she decided to return to Rome. She packed up and left with her servants.”
“The steward let her go to Rome alone?” Apicius was incredulous.
“No, Dominus. I remembered your client Antistius Vetus was going back to Rome—he sent word the night before to let you know he wouldn’t be at the salutatio. I told the steward, and when Aelia was packing to leave, he sent a messenger to Vetus asking if she could accompany his family when they traveled. He agreed. Twenty of the house guards went as an escort, with instructions that ten of them should return to Minturnae when she arrived safely in Rome. They arrived two days ago. Aelia and Apicata are both safe at home.”
Apicius mumbled a short prayer. “Did she leave a message?”
“I don’t know, Dominus, but she left in such a hurry I don’t think she would have. I’m sorry.”
Apicius stared at the stones at his feet. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice low but full of deep anger. The hairs on the back of my neck rose.
“Sotas, tell the servants to start packing for Rome. I want to be gone within the hour. Thrasius, tell the slaves to distribute what has already been prepared for tonight’s cena among my top clients. Then ready yourself to travel.”
I hesitated only a moment, but it was enough to further raise Apicius’s ire. “Go! Do not tarry! If we are not ready to leave in an hour all slaves will receive the lash.”
We hurried to do our master’s bidding and were nearly ready to go when a shout rang out across the garden in front of the domus. Everyone stopped to look in the direction of the sound.
“It’s that client Mato. . . . Do you remember him?” Sotas said to me, squinting to see the figure making his way toward us.
“The man with the sick boy. Yes, I do.”
Apicius appeared in the doorway as Mato neared, his gait halting and awkward. His hair was mussed and his dirty face was lined with tracks made from many tears.
“He looks drunk. Sotas, be prepared.” Apicius folded his arms in front of him to stand his ground. Sotas moved toward Mato to keep the man at a distance.
Mato stopped right before he reached Sotas. He dropped to his knees and threw his hands into the air.
“In Jupiter’s name I curse you, Apicius!” he screamed toward the heavens. “I curse your family to an early death, like you gave my son. I curse you to doom and delirium. I curse you to a life so terrible that you take your own life and your slaves inherit all you own.”
Apicius didn’t move a muscle. He watched calmly as Mato made his pronouncements. But when Mato pulled out a long, shiny knife from inside his ripped tunic, Apicius backed up quickly, knocking me over in his haste to get away from the man. I had just enough time to look up from my spot on the dusty ground to see that Mato hadn’t stood at all. Instead he held the knife against his throat and, with one fast motion, tore it across his skin. Blood gushed forth in a rush, soaking his tunic. A horrified cry arose from the crowd of slaves. Collectively, we turned our heads, making signs to ward off the evil eye. Mato’s body hit the ground with a thump.
? ? ?
Like he had with his mother, Apicius instructed that the body be dumped in the ocean, weighted with stones. He wouldn’t come out of the domus until all the blood was gone. He said nothing of the incident after that, but he didn’t let anyone ride in his carpentum with him, not even Sotas. I was grateful for the distance from my dominus. A dark melancholy consumed me and I wanted to talk to no one.
We rode through the night and arrived in Rome at daybreak. We stabled the oxen—they were not allowed into the city—and picked up Apicius’s litter from storage. It was a long journey back to the villa from the city gates.
Despite the early hour, the city was bustling, preparing for yet another holiday, Vinalia Rustica, the celebration of the year’s first grape harvest. The streets leading to the Forum were decorated with ribbons and vines. Vendors hawked painted miniature amphorae to tourists, and troupes of flutists and dancers could be heard practicing in the alleys as we passed.
I loved Vinalia. Every year Passia and I looked forward to the first feast of the three-day festival. Aelia would line up the servants on both sides of the long hallway leading from the front door through the atrium. Together Apicius, Apicata, and Aelia would walk the lines and place a grape on the tongue of each slave and say a blessing to the lady Venus. Then Apicius would have ten jars of his best Falernian wine brought up from the cellar and he would give them to his most loyal servants. I would make sweet curds and honey tarts for the whole household, slaves included, and we would read poetry and listen to music. With Aelia and Apicius on such poor terms, I wasn’t sure there would be much of a festival in our villa this year.
When we turned onto the street winding up the Palatine toward Apicius’s villa, a young man came running toward our party, shouting, “Apicius!”
Whenever we traveled through Rome, some vendor would race after the litter to sell Apicius some new luxurious food or a special serving dish. These sellers never sold anything worth stopping for. But of course Apicius always stopped.
Sotas stepped forward to block the man from moving closer to the litter, but the man, a wiry Jew, hardly seemed to notice Sotas. He continued to shout and wave his arms as the litter moved farther down the street.
“Apicius! I have silphium! Please stop, I have silphium! I’ve come from Cyrene and I was told to find you whenever I have silphium!”
I wondered at the man’s tale. Silphium had become increasingly rare and costly. The Greeks couldn’t figure out how to cultivate it and had to rely on wild sources. Trade was tightly controlled and even the most influential had a hard time obtaining the herb. Where had he gotten it?
The man drew close and, much to my surprise, Sotas didn’t stop him. Instead he reached out and gave the man a hearty hug. “Benjamin! It is good to see you. You have silphium? Real silphium, not the stuff from Parthia?”
“Yes! I secured some from a patrician whose life I saved from drowning when I was in Cyrene. I asked for silphium in payment.”