A Gladiator Dies Only Once (11 page)

With a doddering gait, he led me toward a terrace shaded by olive trees, where various slaves toiled over large clay pots. “Garum was invented by the Greeks, you know,” he said. “In the old days it was a luxury that only the wealthiest Romans could afford. Nowadays everyone eats it, every day, on everything—or at least they eat some-thing they call garum, whether it’s worthy of the name or not. The best garum is still quite costly. Here, we’ll watch this fellow make up a batch. Patro is your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, foreman.” A bright-eyed young slave stood before a very large, wide-mouthed, flat-bottomed clay pot that came up to his knees. The bottom of the pot was already covered with a mixture of aromatic dried herbs. I leaned over the pot and breathed in the smells of dill, coriander, celery, fennel, oregano, and mint. No doubt there were other spices my nose was too untrained to discern.

“Who mixes the spices?” I said.

“What’s that?”

“I said, who mixes—”

“The master comes down from Rome and does it himself, every other month or so,” said Acastus.

This confirmed what Lucius had already told me. “But others must know exactly which spices are stocked in the warehouse. The recipe can’t be a secret.”

Acastus laughed. “The ingredients aren’t the secret. It’s the
proportions
that make the difference. The master does the measuring and the mixing himself, with no one else present. He’s got a most refined palate, does the master. There are over thirty spices in all. You’d be hard-pressed to reproduce that exact mixture by tasting the finished product, or haphazardly trying this or that amount.”

Patro, meanwhile, had fetched another pot, this one filled with sardines. These he spread over the layer of spices. “The fatter the fish, the better,” commented Acastus.

Over the sardines, Patro spread a thick layer of salt. “Two fingers high,” said Acastus. “More is too salty; less, not salty enough.”

Patro repeated these three layers—spices, fish, salt—until the container was full. He then placed a lid on the pot, sealed the rim with pitch, and, with the help of another slave—for the pot must have been quite heavy—carried it to a sunny spot nearby.

“Now we let the mixture sit in the sun for seven days. No more, no less! After that, we’ll stir it every day for twenty days. And then . . .” Acastus kissed his fingertips. “The finest garum on earth. I taste each batch myself before it’s shipped out.” He flashed a gaptoothed smile. “You were wondering, weren’t you, why the master has kept me on, long past my prime? Not for my squinting eyes or my half-deaf ears. For
this.”
He tapped his nose. “And
this.”
He stuck out his tongue.

I heard laughter behind me and turned to see Patro and the other slave cover their mouths and look away. Acastus squinted in their direction. “Did you hear squirrels chattering?” he said. “Terrible pests. Known to open the garum pots during fermentation and scatter it all about. We have to throw the whole batch away when that happens.”

“Would it spoil if you simply resealed it?”

“Probably not, but we can’t take the chance. The master has a standard to maintain.”

“How often does this happen?”

“Perhaps once a month.”

“I suppose you note the loss in your ledgers?”

“Of course! I keep strict accounting of all expenditures and losses, including spoilage. It’s not a major problem; still, I feed the workers fresh squirrel as often as I can, so as to thin the ranks of those nasty pests!”

_________

That night Acastus and I dined not on squirrel but on herb bread and liver pâté, with generous helpings of garum. Acastus went to bed early. I stayed up for a while, examining the ledgers, with his permission. Eventually I went to bed myself, with instructions to be awakened at the beginning of the workday.

A slave woke me at dawn. I roused myself, went down to the stream to splash my face, and ate a crust of bread on the terrace. Acastus was not yet up, but the rest of the compound was stirring. I strolled over to the fermentation area.

From a distance, I saw young Patro with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “Can you believe it? They’ve done it again, those damned squirrels!”

It appeared that the phenomenon Acastus had described had occurred during the night. The lid of the container which Patro had sealed the previous day lay on the grass, salt was scattered about, and a whole layer of sardines was missing.

“Mischievous little pests, aren’t they?” I said.

Patro smiled. “More hungry than mischievous, don’t you imagine? Either way, they’re only as the gods made them. Well, I suppose I should get rid of this batch, then let Acastus know. Here, Motho, come help me carry it down to the stream.”

Together, they lifted the open container. Walking slowly and awkwardly, they headed toward the wooded cleft beside the stream.

I headed for the cleft myself, walking fast and taking a different route. I was waiting on the opposite bank when they arrived. Instead of emptying the contents of the pot in the rushing water, they crossed the shallow stream and began to climb the opposite bank, huffing and puffing.

“And where might you fellows be going?” I said.

They froze in their tracks and gazed up at me blankly.

“We . . . that is to say . . .” Patro frantically tried to think of some explanation.

“I think you’re headed for Fabricius’s place, to sell him that pot of garum. He’ll only need to add some sardines and salt to the top, seal it up, and let it ferment. A month from now he can sell it at his little shop in Rome and claim that it’s every bit as delicious as the famous garum of Lucius Claudius—since it
is
the garum of Lucius Claudius!”

“Please, this is the first time we’ve ever—”

“No, Patro. You’ve been doing this about once a month for almost half a year. That’s how often such a loss is noted in Acastus’s ledgers.”

“But—
we
didn’t spoil this batch. I was in my bed all night, and so was Motho—”

“I know you didn’t. Nor did a squirrel. I did it myself, to see what would happen. I imagine that the very first time it happened, it
was
the act of a squirrel, or some other nocturnal pest. And you thought: what a pity, to waste all that lovely, valuable garum. Why not sell it to the neighbor? What do you two do with the money Fabricius pays you? Enjoy a night of wine and women down in Pompeii?”

Their faces turned red.

“I thought so. But what was it you said about the squirrels? They’re only as the gods made them.’ Hard to blame you for taking advantage of the occasional accident—except that what began as an accident has become a regular occurrence. If it happens that you two have been damaging batches of garum on purpose—”

“You can’t prove that!” said Patro, his voice rising to a desperate pitch.

“No. But I intend to stop it from happening again. What do you say? I’ll turn a blind eye to this morning’s mischief, in exchange for your promise that you’ll never sell garum to Fabricius again.”

The two of them looked very relieved and very repentant.

“Very well. Now, let’s see you empty that spoiled batch of garum in the stream!”

On the way back to Rome, I pondered the dilemma I had gotten myself into. How could I assure Lucius Claudius that the problem had been taken care of, without getting those two young slaves into trouble? And further, how could I let Lucius know, without getting Acastus into trouble, that the foreman needed an assistant with a sharper pair of eyes and ears and a more suspicious temperament?

I would think of something. After all, a lifetime’s supply of the world’s best garum was at stake!

ARCHIMEDES’S TOMB

“When I learned that you and your son were here in Syracuse, Gordianus, I sent Tiro to find you at once. You have no idea what a comfort it is, seeing a familiar face out here in the provinces,” Cicero smiled and raised his cup.

I returned the gesture. Eco did likewise, and the three of us sipped in unison. The local vintage wasn’t bad. “I appreciate the welcome,” I said, which was true. Indeed, Tiro’s unexpected appearance at the dingy inn down at the harbor where Eco and I were staying had taken me by complete surprise, and the invitation to dine with Cicero and to spend the night at his rented house surprised me even more. In the five years since Cicero had first employed me (to assist him in the defense of Sextus Roscius, accused of parricide), our relationship had been strictly professional. Cicero generally treated me with a cool diffidence: I was merely the Finder, useful for digging up dirt. I regarded him with wary respect; as an advocate and rising politician, Cicero seemed genuinely interested in justice and truth—but in the end he was, after all, an advocate and a politician.

In other words, we were on friendly terms, but not exactly friends. So I found it curious that he should have invited Eco and me to dine with him purely for pleasure. His twelve months as a government administrator here in Sicily must have been lonely for him indeed if the sight of my face could bring him much enjoyment. “You’re not exactly at the end of the world here,” I felt obliged to point out. “Sicily isn’t all that far from Rome.”

“True, true, but far enough to make a man appreciate what Rome has to offer. And far enough so that all the gossip gets a bit distorted on the way here. You must tell me everything that’s been happening in the Forum, Gordianus.”

“Surely your friends and family keep you informed.”

“They write, of course, and some of them have visited. But none of them have your. . .” He searched for the word. “Your particular
perspective.”
Looking up at the world, he meant, instead of down. “Ah, but now that my year of service is up, I shall soon be back in Rome myself. What a relief it shall be to leave this wretched place behind me. What’s that the boy is saying?”

On the dining couch beside me, my mute son had put down his cup and was shaping thoughts in the air with his hands. His pictures were clear enough to me, if not to Cicero: high mountains, broad beaches, stony cliffs. “Eco likes Sicily, or at least the little we’ve seen of it on this trip. He says that the scenery here is beautiful.”

“True enough,” Cicero agreed, “though not so true of the people.”

“The Greek-speaking population? I thought you adored all things Greek, Cicero.”

“All things Greek, perhaps, but not all Greeks.” He sighed. “Greek culture is one thing, Gordianus. The art, the temples, the plays, the philosophy, the mathematics, the poetry. But—well, since my other guests haven’t yet arrived, I shall speak freely, Roman to Roman. The Greeks who gave us all that marvelous culture are dust now, and have been for centuries. As for their far-flung progeny, especially in these parts—well, it’s sad to see how little they resemble their colonizing ancestors.

“Consider this city: Syracuse, once a beacon of light and learning to the whole of the Mediterranean this side of Italy—the Athens of the west, the rival of Alexandria at its peak. Two hundred years ago, Hiero ruled here, and men like Archimedes walked the beach. Now one finds only the remnants of a proud race, a degraded people, rude and uneducated, without manners or morals. The far-flung colonies of the Greeks have forgotten their forebears. The mantle of civilization has been taken up by us, Gordianus, by Rome. We are the true heir to Greek culture, not the Greeks. Only Romans nowadays have the refinement to truly appreciate, say, a statue by Polyclitus.”

“Or is it that only Romans have the money to afford such things?” I suggested. “Or the armies to bring them home by force?”

Cicero wrinkled his nose to show that he found my questions inappropriate, and called for more wine. Beside me, Eco fidgeted on his couch. The early education of my adopted son had been sorely neglected, and despite my best efforts, his progress was still hampered by his inability to speak. At fifteen, he was almost a man, but talk of culture, especially from a snob like Cicero, quickly bored him.

“Your year of foreign service has made you even more of a Roman patriot,” I remarked. “But if your term is up, and if you find the company of the Greek Sicilians so lacking, I wonder that you don’t leave the place at once.”

“Right now I’m playing tourist, actually. I was posted to the other half of the island, you see, over in Lilybaeum on the west coast. Syracuse is a stopover on my way home, a last chance to see the sights before I quit Sicily for good. Don’t misunderstand me, Gordianus. This
is
a beautiful island, as your son says, resplendent with natural wonders. There are many fine buildings and works of art, and many sites of great historical importance. So much has happened in Sicily in the centuries since the Greeks colonized it—the golden reign of Hiero, the great mathematical discoveries of his friend Archimedes, the Carthaginian invasions, the Roman takeover. There’s plenty for a visitor to see and do here in Syracuse.” He sipped his wine. “But I don’t suppose it’s pleasure that’s brought
you
here, Gordianus.”

“Eco and I are here strictly on business. A fellow back in Rome hired me to follow the trail of a business partner who absconded with the profits. I tracked the missing man here to Syracuse, but today I learned that he’s sailed on, probably east to Alexandria. My instructions were to go only as far as Sicily, so as soon as I can book passage, I plan to head back to Rome with the bad news and collect my fee.”