Tales of Ancient Rome (9 page)

“
I think Trajan is going to be happy with us, Anakreon.”

With a pinch of salt

The corridor was quiet and dark as Melicos pounded along it, his sandals flapping on the decorative marble floor, his way lit only by small pottery oil lamps flickering on ledges placed at regular intervals. His hand tilted expertly first one way and then the other with practiced ease, balancing the elegant silver platter with its succulent dish as he raced around corners, his expensive, sauce-spattered tunic wafting around him.

It was the lot of a slave, not a freedman, to spend his time running to keep his master happy but Melicos felt no shame at such behaviour. He had received his manumission some ten years ago at the behest of the glorious emperor Claudius Caesar and had remained in his former slave position gratefully, receiving a considerable wage, a small apartment of his own and a number of other benefits, not the least of which was living and working in the great Palatine complex.

The former slave had impressed the deformed, barely-audible and yet incredibly astute and careful Emperor from the very beginning with his innovative and masterful ability with food. Even as a slave he had gone from being a simple cook among a dozen others to running the kitchen in those first couple of years. Since his manumission and being given free rein to hire his own staff, however, his kitchen had become famous: the envy of Rome’s noble classes. Invitations to the emperor’s parties were sought after by the greatest generals and richest patricians. All for Melicos’ simple expertise with sauces and combinations.

Carefully juggling the platter, spinning it expertly with his little finger to keep it balanced, Melicos bellowed an order as he ran and the door at the end of the corridor swung open as he neared it, granting access to the Imperial apartments.

On he ran, into the decorative entrance hall with its frescos of elegant parkland, lakes and bridges, swans and geese, colonnaded villas and trees. Deftly, he jumped a small table. He could have navigated the route from the kitchen to Claudius’ triclinium in the pitch darkness without spilling a drop, he’d done it so many times.

The smell of Melicos’ signature dish wafted after him as he ran.

His sauce cooks were all experts in their field. Pratucus had been chief chef to the governor of Narbonensis before his fame spread and Melicos sent him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Banathes was a Syrian who had risen to fame with his own chain of thermopolia in Emesa. He was often a little heavy on the spices, but was learning to temper his work for the more jaded palate of Rome. Latiades was a find: a Greek who could work wonders with mulsum.

It had been something of a wrench letting go of control over the sauces, but Melicos simply didn’t have time these days to work in as much detail as he used to, having to monitor the work of three dozen kitchen staff in an almost constant flurry. At least they were the three best sauce cooks to be found in the entire Empire.

Ha!

He laughed bitterly at the thought as he rounded another corner, slapping along into a wide corridor with bright windows that dazzled with sunlight, fading the beautiful painted griffins on the far wall.

One of the prized suilli, coated with his special sauce of mixed garlic, sea-salt, black pepper, reduced cream and crushed poppy seeds, rolled off the pile and, with a move that took more dexterity than any gladiator could ever hope to achieve, Melicos dipped and came up running still, the precious cargo rolling back into place, caught once more by the silver dish.

Claudius had always loved his suilli, but since that day that Melicos had perfected his sauce recipe, the emperor had refused to eat them in any other fashion, demanding the dish at least three times each week. It had become a little repetitive and dull for the head chef, but now, with his three sauciers, he could farm out the most irritating tasks, and the pride in his famed dish made any trouble worthwhile. Claudius had forbidden the staff from allowing the recipe out of the Palatine kitchens, and visitors were rarely treated to the delicacy, unless the emperor wished to tease someone.

The meal had been in progress for almost half an hour. Melicos redoubled his speed. He just simply had to get the dish there in time!

Another door opened in response to a shout, and he pelted into the main residential area, the sounds of muffled conversation drifting back through the doorways, backed by the music of a masterful trio.

Melicos pinched the bridge of his nose as he ran. He couldn’t afford to mess this up. The emperor wasn’t a person given to extremes of violence, unlike his predecessor, but even he would have trouble here, and Agrippina would be harsh to say the least.

Her attitude toward the kitchen staff had been made abundantly clear in her first month on the Palatine, following her wedding and accession. It had come to her attention that rats had been spotted in the kitchen and stores of the palace. Her violent outbursts and rabid demands that every brick of the kitchens, stores and servants’ quarters, well over a hundred rooms and passages in all, be cleaned by hand and washed down with vinegar and exterminators be brought in to deal with the vermin.

Ridiculous. Rats were ever present. The lady of the Palatine could demand whatever she wished, but there would always be rats in the lower levels. They were a fact of life, like birds or sunsets or slaves.

And thus, inadvertently, it had been Agrippina that had caused all of this, thought Melicos as he ran, gritting his teeth. Years now of scrubbing damp, decayed brick, and leaving out traps, hiring burly charlatans who would come with a box, display a dead rat they probably brought with them, collect their cash and leave. All because the lady Agrippina detested rodents so much she would turn the Palatine inside out to deal with them.

And in those years it had become apparent that she held the staff in little more esteem than she did the rats, though this disgust and enmity was mutual, he had to admit. Whatever the emperor saw in her, none of the staff could understand. And as for her obnoxious brat of a boy…

The voices were loud now and the music almost present. Melicos came to a halt in the vestibule and paused to recover his breath. No matter the urgency, one did not burst into the emperor’s presence at a run, heaving in gasps of air. A half minute would be enough to compose himself, straighten his tunic, and round the corner to present the dish to Claudius and his guests.

He could only hope he was still in time.

The dish of suilli smelled succulent and appetising, much as the last one had.

The one that had been delivered half an hour ago.

The one with the ‘special sauce’.

There would be an investigation as to how the rat poison ended up on the delicate mushrooms. Melicos could trace the chain of events in his mind clearly enough. The last exterminators they had in were a real haphazard lot with no sense of decorum or order. One of them, probably the Gaul with the disturbing squint, would have left the poison on the shelf while he worked and forgot to collect it afterwards.

Banathes, the Syrian saucier, would have reached for the powdered garlic and salt and his hand inadvertently closed on the wrong jar; the poison had looked so like the garlic mix that even Melicos had had to sniff it to be sure.

Someone would die for this, certainly. Melicos just hoped it wasn’t him. Poor Halotus, the emperor’s taster, would have had the first taste, but he would only have had a little bite, so the poison would likely work slowly on him and give him a bad few days of digestive trouble. But eaten in bulk…

Melicos mopped his perspiring brow and took a deep breath, rounding the corner into the busy triclinium with steady breath and a carefully blank expression.

The emperor Claudius lay on his couch, lounging next to Agrippina, the witch plastered in so much white lead that she looked more like a statue of herself. Other guests, including the insidious and oily Otho, lay around listening to the soothing music, chattering away without a care in the world.

Trying to conceal his nerves, Melicos strode purposefully into the room and bowed, scanning the table.

His heart sank.

The empty silver platter stared back at him, mocking his tardiness.

Halotus the taster stood at the side of the emperor’s couch, gnawing on a dormouse in honey. Agrippina smiled at her husband, the white lead straining and ready to crack. Claudius was frowning, but very much alive, stroking the witch’s cheek. Melicos heaved a sigh of relief and crossed the room, producing the silver dish of suilli with a flourish and sweeping away the empty platter, replacing it smoothly.

“
Why Melicos” the emperor smiled. “More? You spoil me.”

The chef took a deep bow, his mind racing. Perhaps the emperor had been feeling unusually generous and had shared them all around, administering a mild dose to everyone? Or perhaps this was all a mistake and Banathes had not reached for the wrong jar. Whatever the case, Claudius seemed happy.

With a smile, Melicos turned and strode across the room toward the exit.

Behind him there was a loud gurgling and rumbling, like the noises that issued from the drains of the Cloaca Maxima as it heaved and groaned under the weight of a heavy storm flow; like an archway about to collapse after a tremor; like a man’s digestive system trying to cope with enough poison to kill a hundred vermin.

All conversation stopped and Melicos found that he had halted mid-stride.

The emperor’s voice was shaky and a little high.

“
Oh dear. I think I shat myself.”

Aftermath in the Ludus

Tarentius sat up slowly.

It was still dark and he was hungry. So hungry. When was the last time he ate? Must have been before the last bout. The lanista had given them all a good solid meal of pork, bread and vegetables to help build both strength and courage for the fight. And the fight finished hours and hours ago. Sometime in the early afternoon. It must have been half a day ago; no wonder he was so ravenous.

Throwing off his scant cloth cover, he climbed off the pallet and stumbled in the darkness. He knew the layout of the ludus intimately and could easily find his way to the kitchens with his eyes shut. This late into the night, all the others would be asleep in their cots and the only lights burning would be the torches and lamps in the lanista’s apartments and office. Perhaps in the kitchens too if it was more ‘early’ than late, the slaves preparing the gladiators’ morning meal.

Shuffling with a tired gait out into the hall, he could hear the rumbling snored of Braxus the Thracian, a sound like a collapsing insula. Beyond was the familiar wheezing, whistling snore of Paris and then the strange whimpering, dog-like night noises of the two young Numidians retiarii. Even with bad direction sense, and old hand here could navigate just by the sounds.

He must have been absolutely exhausted after that last bout, to have fallen asleep early and missed the evening meal. He couldn’t remember falling asleep or being shouted, but then the bastards who ran the place would hardly fall over themselves to make sure he got his meal. Even with five successful fights under his belt, he was still a slave, and any meal they didn’t have to cook was money saved.

Tarentius growled as he pondered on the unfairness of the situation. One day he might emulate Spartacus and give the lanista a taste of his own lash.

After supper, though.

Grinning, he saw the flickering torchlight from the kitchen doorway as he turned the corner. Someone was busy doing food for the morning. He wondered if they had something tasty to spare?

Rounding the corner, Tarentius entered the kitchen, fixing his gaze on the young Gaulish cook and licked his desiccated, shredded lips.

“
Mmmm… braaaaaiiiinssssss….”

The cook fainted.

The Palmyrene Prince

Vaballathus, son of Odaenathus and Zenobia, crown prince of the Empire of Palymra, sat impatiently on the small, highly-decorated silk stool. His four guards stood by the outer door to the chamber, armoured but denied the right to wear their weapons within the palace. It galled him, as a member of one of the most noble royal houses in the world and heir to the throne of an ancient land, to be kept waiting in the entrance chamber by a fellow independent ruler.

He sighed and rubbed his knees. The ride from Palmyra, better part of four hundred miles to the west, had been a swift, desperate and uncomfortable one, with fewer in the entourage than he would have liked, but time was of the essence and the Palmyrene army had few enough men to spare at this point.

Standing, he strode along the walls of the great guest chamber, decorated with silk and gold, murals depicting Kings of Persia from the days of antiquity; faces long forgotten stared back at him from under glittering crowns and ruffled their huge beards grandiosely.

He ground his teeth.

“
Erabas? What did the lackey say when you spoke to him?”

“
Sire, he said he would consult with his master and find us upon his return.”

“
Who does he think I am?” snarled the young prince, kicking the elaborate stool’s leg and chipping the beautiful carving.