I grinned and rushed forward with the basin and a towel. “Permission to speak,” I asked her as I took her sticky hand in mine.
She smirked. “Permission granted.”
I slowly ran the damp towel across each slender finger. I kept my voice low so only she could hear. “Later, my dear Domina, I would be delighted to wash you in private.”
She raised an eyebrow at me. “I think you will have to prove yourself first, boy.”
I bowed in front of her, my head on the tiles. “I will do anything you require, Domina.”
“Good. Now fetch me some more honey fritters. And you will clean my hands again, when I call for you.”
I winked at her. “Yes, Domina. Anything for you.”
That night our lovemaking tasted sweeter than all the honey in Iberia.
? ? ?
Apicata found the situation confusing. “Why doesn’t my father grant Passia freedom too?” she asked at the cena on that first evening, when she was helping Aelia and me load up trays with dishes for the second course. Apicius was in the triclinium serving as the scissor slave to Sotas and Rúan.
Passia glanced at me, bemused. Aelia looked alarmed and took hold of the situation.
She put her arm around her daughter, who had grown tall in the last year. “Thrasius has done a great deal to advance your father’s interests among Roman society, my treasure. Freedom comes to slaves at different times. Passia is bound to have her freedom someday. But for now, she’s happy here. If she had her freedom, both Thrasius and Passia might move away, and you wouldn’t want that, right?”
Aelia had touched upon the crux of the matter. It pained my heart to think of it. As long as I was important to his success, Apicius would never sell Passia nor would he grant her freedom.
“That’s ridiculous.” Apicata snorted, raising an eyebrow at her beloved slave. “Passia would never leave us, would she?”
I couldn’t help but chuckle as Passia gave her a reassuring hug. The girl’s certainty was refreshing. In moments like those I always felt such a deep outpouring of love for our little domina. She was right. This was our familia. How could we ever leave?
? ? ?
I wasn’t prepared for how Sotas would take the news. For most of Saturnalia, he was cold toward me, refusing to sit near me on any of the couches, to break bread with me, or even to have more than a cursory conversation. He took the gift I offered him, a new pair of fine leather sandals, but did not thank me or even try them on.
“Sotas, talk to me,” I said to him one day while the family was playing knucklebones with the slaves in the atrium.
“I have nothing to say.”
“But what did I do?” I knew it wasn’t what I did, but what I had become. I was a freedman and he was not.
“Nothing,” he grunted.
“You do realize that I am not entirely free. I will still be his cook. And his adviser.”
He would not look at me. “You can leave whenever you want.”
“I cannot. Where would I go? And how could I live without Passia?”
The big man shrugged and wouldn’t say anything more.
? ? ?
On the last day of Saturnalia, Apicius asked me to accompany him to the library. When we arrived, he dismissed Sotas, who did not even look at me, then walked over to his desk, picked up a large, thick parcel, and handed it to me.
“My promise to you.”
I eyed the parcel, wondering what sort of promise could be within.
“Go ahead, open it.”
I ripped the large wax seal on the parcel and opened it up. It was the toga Apicius had promised me. I didn’t unfold it—there was no way I would know how to fold it again. It was made of expensive off-white linen. I knew how much it cost—I had purchased many similar togas for Apicius to give as gifts to his friends.
“I don’t know what to say.”
He smiled. “Say nothing. I am sending my dressing slaves to your cubicle to help you get into it. Make sure you ask one of them to show Tycho how to wrap a toga—you’ll need his help every morning from now on.”
The thought of wearing a toga every day was one of the few things about having my freedom that I didn’t look forward to. They were hot and cumbersome.
“Thank you, Apicius. Thank you for everything.”
“Go on now. Happy Saturnalia!”
I repressed a bow and went to subject myself to the strangeness of having someone else dress me.
? ? ?
That night we held a very big banquet, with all of Apicius’s slaves from both the villa and the school. It was a night of great festivity, with games of dice and knucklebones taking place across the villa. Togas were shunned in favor of the synthesis, colorful, casual dress that was never condoned at dinner. There was an amphora of wine free flowing in each of the common areas, food was in great abundance, and Apicius was especially giving to all his slaves and clients. At the salutatio that morning, many of Apicius’s poorer clients received a very generous gratuity that many of Rome’s richest took honor in giving at Saturnalia and one that the clients relied upon to buy gifts for their families.
We were in the triclinium listening to the slaves give little speeches, mocking the mannerisms and tones of the nobility. Helene had us all in stitches with her speech pretending to be a patrician woman attending an unfavorable play.
“And those miserable wretches in the chorus!” she intoned with a stereotypical voice. “Who do they think they—?” Helene broke off as a door guard ran into the atrium shouting.
“Empress Livia is here! Dominus, Empress Livia is here!”
My heart lodged in my throat. Passia folded herself into me, trembling.
“Oh, mighty Hera, do not let her take my love from my arms,” she whispered.
Livia swept into the room before anyone could react. She had with her a small entourage, which included, to no surprise, Publius Octavius. She didn’t wear a wig and the gray in her hair was whiter since I’d last seen her. She looked old. Old and determined.
Apicius bowed his head, then stood up tall. He seemed to be drawing on power I had never seen before. Confidence covered him like a blanket.
“My dear Livia, what brings us the honor of your presence on such a special Saturnalia evening?”
Livia was not swayed by the reminder that it was a sacred holiday. “I have come to buy your cook, Apicius. This time I will not take no for an answer.”
Apicius smiled, retaining his jovial demeanor. “Rúan, come forward.” He extended a hand toward my friend, who stood a few feet from Passia and me. “The empress has come to purchase you.”
Rúan stared at me, horrified. My mouth gaped open, shocked at Apicius’s words.
Octavius pushed his way past the slaves flanking Livia. His face was as red as a beet. “That’s not his cook!” His gaze landed on me. “He is!”
Livia looked at Apicius, anger deepening the lines around her eyes. Her voice held the heat of the vestals’ flame. “Are you trying to deceive me?”