Cena Apicius is a working title for a historical fiction novel about the life of Marcus Gavius Apicius, a wealthy Roman noble who lived in the early first century. Very little is known about him save for snippets of information left behind in works by Seneca, Tacitus, Pliny the Elder and others. He was famous for the lavish feasts he threw for his fellow Romans, and even for Emperor Tiberius. I became interested in the story when reading food memoirs and books about food history. As a big foodie myself, I found myself drawn to the strange story of Apicius, who could be considered the world’s first known gourmand. The oldest known cookbook was named after him.

This scene follows immediately after a previous snippet in which Thrasius takes Apicata to the market on their last day in Baiae and she is leered at by a drunken noble.

Copyrighted, draft form, definitely has errors, will definitely change, might be cut, etc… Here is my Friday Snippet:

Thrasius and Apicata arrived back at the domus to find the house bustling with activity. Many of Apicius’ clients had arrived early and were loitering outside the gates, waiting for their patron to begin receiving them. Thrasius pushed past them, ignoring questions about how long Apicius planned on keeping the little crowd waiting. Apicata had whined the entire way home, upset because they had to leave without honey ice and because Thrasius was impatient to return to the domus and kept a pace that her little legs could barely match. Once she tripped and almost crushed her wind-up. Despite her protests, he took the bird from her to keep it safe on the walk home.

Apicius was waiting in the vestibule, ready to receive his clients but waiting for Thrasius to arrive. He wore one of his best togas and in his hand he held a large scroll. He must have been going over the list of clients in Thrasius’ absence–something they usually did together before they opened the doors to welcome the many clients that looked to Apicius for protection, advice, food and favors.

Sotas sat on a long bench on one side of the room. He sighed and shook his head when he saw Thrasius. Apicius was in a foul mood.

“Where have you been?” Apicius asked, scowling when they entered. Then he saw Apicata’s reddened, tear-stained face. “Apicata! What is wrong?” He thrust the scroll at Sotas and rushed to hug his daughter.

“Thrasius didn’t let me have any honey ice! He took away my bird and he made me run home!”

Thrasius moved forward to give the bird back to Apicata. She took it without looking at him and then buried her face in Apicius’ shoulder. Her tears blossomed up in full force, one of her best offensive moves against her father. Apicius hated seeing his little girl cry. Thrasius groaned at the irony of the situation.

“There better be a good explanation for why you are late to salutio and why my daughter is so upset,” Apicius said, looking up. His eyes mirrored his thoughts–a tempest raged within. Thrasius couldn’t remember if he had ever seen Apicius so angry.

“There is.” He motioned with his head and hand that he wanted Apicata to leave before he gave an explanation.

Apicius raised an eyebrow but understood. He pulled away from Apicata, wiped her tears with his fingers and smoothed back her curls. “My little flower, go see if you can find your mother. She will want to see your new bird.”

Apicata brightened at the thought of showing off her new possession. She dutifully kissed him on the cheek and ran out of the room in search of her mother.

Thrasius took a deep breath, not sure where to start his explanation. Apicius waited, arms crossed and brow knotted. He reminded Thrasius of the lawyers that he saw in the city, stern and demanding, waiting for but never believing the truth.

He decided that it was best to dispense with formality and let the words rush out unbidden. The entire scene unfolded in front of him once more: the young man and the chipped-tooth prostitute; his sonorous voice when he leered at Apicata; Prokopton’s beefy hand on the handle of the axe; Apicata crying about nearly crushing her bird; his racing heartbeat and most of all the actions which were far beyond that of a virtuous Roman.

Apicius listened quietly. His face was unreadable, even when Thrasius mentioned that the noble seemed to know him. Sotas seemed more entranced with the story than Apicius–when Thrasius looked over to the body slave, he thought he saw a trace of amusement in his eye. Oh how he wished the man could talk!

When Apicius finally spoke, it was clear that he was struggling to keep his temper in check. He paced back and forth in front of his receiving chair as he spoke. “You were late to the salutio. My clients have been kept waiting. My daughter is upset. On top of all this you dare tell me a ridiculous story about a drunk equestrian in order to make up for your lateness?”

Thrasius gasped. How could Apicius think he was lying?

“Dominus, I have never told you anything but truth. What would I have to gain from lying to you now?” His words were bold but his loyalty was at stake–he felt the wound of Apicius’ doubt prick him deep beneath his breast. In the three years since his purchase he had been the model slave–truthful, dependable and unwavering. Apicius was often disappointed in other slaves, but rarely in Thrasius.

“To keep your reputation unblemished, I suspect. You knew how angry I would be that you were late for the salutio and you wanted to escape my wrath! Out of all people, Thrasius, you know how important my last full day in Baiae is!”

“But dominus! I swear on my life that what I said is true!”

Apicius sat down in his receiving chair. He pointed a finger at Thrasius, gesturing with an impatient poking motion. “We will speak of this no more. As punishment, you will walk with the house boys behind the carts–the entire way to Rome. You will also apologize to my daughter.” Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke. When he finished his admonishment, he snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor next to his chair. “And today you will play the perfect slave that you pretend to be. Stand here and advise me in today’s salutio.” He gestured at Sotas to open the front doors.

Without complaint, Thrasius did as he was told. He advised Apicius on all the clients that came to pay their respect, reminded him about names, suggested favors to ask such as recommends to relatives in Rome, advised in the payments to poets and writers who might sing Apicius’ praises, and took note of those who hoped for an invite of hospes at the villa in Rome. One of the clients wanted to be kept in mind for a recommendation of a Roman husband for his daughter. Apicius mentioned that one of his Minturnae clients had an eligible son and perhaps there would be a good match between them. It was little details such as letters to be written that Thrasius kept track of and delegated after the salutio. Today’s tasks, however, would need to wait until they reached Rome. He had hoped to handle much of the work as they traveled but now he realized that would be impossible if he was going to be stuck walking behind the litters and wagons.

When the salutio was over, he left without a word, angry that Apicius refused to believe him. Sotas clapped him on the shoulder as he left–a gesture of solace and solidarity. It was plain that he didn’t agree with Apicius’ understanding of the day’s events. Thrasius wished that made him feel better, but he knew that nothing would until he found a way back into Apicius’ favor.

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