A few weeks before the annual Saturnalia festival at the end of December, I steeled myself to go ask Dominus Apicius for a large favor—to marry Passia. It was bold. While formalizing marriage among slaves was common in many households, Apicius had not previously condoned the practice. Or was it that no one had ever dared to ask? I tried to look at the sunlight side of the situation—that I was in good standing with him, and more and more he treated me almost as a friend, if a man like him could have a friend. He did not think of me as he did the other slaves and he didn’t treat me the same. As he grew older he became crueler to his household slaves but kinder to me. He regarded my opinions as valuable and gave generously toward my peculium. But never did he speak of my future unless it entwined with his own.
I was very nervous on the day I went to Apicius. I hadn’t asked him for anything in the ten years since I joined the household, and because of that, I was doubly unsure of how he would react. I paused outside the massive library doors and wiped my brow of sweat. I was saying a prayer to the gods when Apicius spoke.
His voice was wary. “Who’s there?” He must have heard the shuffle of my sandals outside the door.
Sotas poked his head out and waved me in. I willed myself to move forward and enter the room. “It is I, Dominus.”
Apicius stood. I was worried he might be in a foul mood, as he often seemed to be in those days, but he was jovial. “Just the man I wanted to see. Sit and tell me of the school!” He indicated the ornate beechwood chair across from the desk where he sat.
“You are teaching classes on Saturnalia banquets, correct?” he asked as I eased myself into the chair. I curled my hands around the carved lion’s paws of its arms and forced myself to smile. The candelabras sputtered as a slight breeze flitted through the window.
“Yes, Dominus. We have more students in this week’s classes than last. But shouldn’t it be the patricians who come to my Saturnalia classes?” I joked, referring to the ages-old custom of masters and slaves switching places during the weeklong festival.
Apicius smirked, but not unkindly, to my relief. “Possibly. But I doubt my slaves will want to eat the food I make! They are used to your fine fare.”
He cocked his head, taking greater notice of me. “But that’s not why you came here, is it, Thrasius? You are sweating, my boy. Out with it, what is troubling you?”
I froze. I had hoped to ease myself into the question, to gauge how Apicius was feeling and then take the plunge.
“I, uh . . .”
Apicius seemed more concerned than angry. “Thrasius, this is unlike you. Tell me, what is wrong?”
In my nervousness it all spilled out.
“Dominus, I have never asked you for anything, and I know what I am asking might be too much, but, please, consider my request. It has been eight years and I . . . I want to marry Passia.”
Apicius opened his mouth to speak but before a sound slipped past the bar of his teeth, Aelia’s voice cut through the awkwardness.
“Why, yes, Thrasius! Yes, you must marry that girl! I’ll help plan the wedding!” My mistress swept into the room, her peacock blue stola fluttering around her. She came up behind me, hugged me tight, and addressed Apicius. “Of course he must marry her, am I right, dear husband?” The look in her eyes warned Apicius that he dare not say no. Oh, how I loved Aelia in that moment! Her gesture was one of the kindest anyone had ever made toward me.
Apicius wrinkled his brow as though he were deciding whether to be angry. He shifted the scroll beneath his hands. The silence was unbearable.
Finally, he spoke, but did not look up. “No, Thrasius. I must say no. You may not marry her.”
My breath caught in my throat. An hour ago I had prepared myself to be disappointed, but in the moment, hope had won out when Aelia spoke on my behalf. And now his refusal was like a vise on my heart.
“And why ever not?” Aelia asked, echoing my own thoughts. Disbelief made her every word rise in pitch.
“Because I said so. Thrasius does not need distraction.” His voice was hard. He ruffled through the scrolls on his desk, refusing to look his wife or me in the eye. “You are both dismissed.”
I stood there, slack jawed, until Aelia took me by the arm and walked me out of the room. Sotas gave me a look of sympathy before he closed the door behind us.
“Do not despair, Thrasius!” She put her hand on my shoulder. “I will keep trying. I do not know why his heart is so cold. You are his world.”
It was evident in her voice although she did not say the words. I was often more important to Apicius than she was. May the gods bless her, save that one morning before we took the ship to Carthage, she had never expressed jealousy, only care, for me and for Passia.
“No, Domina, it is you who are his world. I just raise his pedestal on this earth a little higher.”
She smiled kindly at me. “Have you asked Passia? Will she be sad to learn this news?”
I shook my head. “No, I would not be able to bear her disappointment as well. I did not tell her I was asking Apicius today, but we always dream about truly being wed.”
“Keep your dream. Together we will change Marcus’s mind.” She hugged me again, tightly, before turning to go. Helene, whom I had not noticed, but of course was always where Aelia was, swept past me to follow her mistress.
I returned to my cubiculum, where I could gather my thoughts. I did not want Passia to see the sadness and anger that enveloped me like a blanket. Why would Apicius deny me? Without me he was nothing. In the last ten years I had toiled endlessly on his behalf. He would have no clients if it were not for me, no school, no cookbooks, and no claim to any fame. He was nothing, absolutely nothing, without me.
When I had closed the door, I ripped off my slave plaque and dashed it against the wall. A large piece of fresco came off and fell to the ground. I would likely have to pay for the repainting myself but at that moment I cared not. I wanted to tear apart my room, but I refrained, not wanting to have to explain my actions to Passia. So I left the clay lamps alone. I did not tear the pillow to shreds. I briefly contemplated dashing my little effigies of Edesia, Hestia, Fornax, Fortuna, and Jupiter against the wall, but their wrath was bound to be much worse than that of Apicius. Instead, I lay on my pallet and stared at the ceiling, wishing the sky would open and dash my dominus to pieces.
? ? ?
The next few days passed in a blur. I had several classes to teach and there were many preparations to make before Saturnalia. The holiday was one of the biggest of the year, a week of great feasting and gift giving. It was even legal to gamble. The slaves were, with the exception of flagrant disobedience, exempt from punishment, and we all wore freedman’s caps. The previous year, Caesar Augustus had attempted to shorten the holiday from seven days to three, but all of Rome rioted. People threw stones at the Forum when the Senate was in session and took to burning effigies of Augustus in front of the temple of Saturn. Augustus was forced to concede and that year he promised to distribute an extra grain ration to the plebs.