School of Athens
Page 11
PARTA
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Gyllipus sits alone at a table in the large mess hall bordering the agora, slowly nursing a familiar meal: the butt of a loaf of barely bread, a half dozen olives, three figs, a small chunk of cheese and a glass of watery wine. At the far end of the hall a small army of cooks labor over large boiling cauldrons and barrels of fruits. A bowl of black soup—a notably unsavory concoction of pig’s blood, pork, salt and vinegar with the color and texture of tar—sits untouched an arm’s length away from the rest of the meal. A helot servant approaches the table and offers to refresh Gyllipus’ cup, but he places his hand over the rim and shakes his head.
Dinners in Sparta are communal and mandatory. Each individual Spartan is free to eat what he wants, with whom he wants, where he wants for breakfast and lunch; but suppers are spent in the company of other soldiers in the mess halls eating food they would expect to find in a bivouac. It’s an aggressively bland meal said to be flavored with only sweat from a day’s training and conversation with one’s comrades, but one that can be supplemented with the a more palatable second course of game or livestock from time to time.
“What’s the matter?” a voice from behind Gyllipus asks. “Is the pig’s anus not cooked well enough for you, Gyllipus?” A thin, young boy with a face covered in soot and ash takes a seat on the other side of the table from Gyllipus and wipes his hands with the help of the apron tied around his waist. His name is Scylax and he’s one of the small clique of cooks that feed almost 5,000 Spartans night after night. “I could bring out some cock-flavored soup, if you’d prefer?” he asks, reaching under the bottom of his tunic to pull out his member.
Gyllipus puts a hand over the bowl. “There’s already enough cock flavoring in tonight’s soup as it is—I must be eating a pig you’ve fucked on an earlier occasion.”
Scylax bends over until his torso is perpendicular to his legs and inspects the soup with one eye closed. “That you in there, dear?” he asks to soup, much to Gyllipus’ amusement. “No, no: that’s not her.”
“Take a seat, if you can a stay a while,” Gyllipus invites.
Scylax sits down, careful to position Gyllipus between himself and the other cooks toiling at the cauldrons. “Where are the rest of the boys?” he asks, with one eye on the head chef.
“On a ride back from Gythium.”
“Gythium?” Scylax says, stroking his chin. “I hope that bastard Lysander’s smart enough to bring some fresh tuna back with him.”
“It was the last thing I mentioned to him before he left this morning.”
“And I don’t suppose you gentlemen have a cook what knows how to clean, gut and cook the scaly little fuckers, do you?
“I had one in mind,” Gyllipus says coyly.
“And is his price better than three dinner portions?” Scylax asks.
“As a matter of fact, he’s only asking for one,” Gyllipus notes.
“Then he must only be cooking for six people,” the cook replies, “and doing a shitty job at that. You should probably ask me to cook the meal before you cunts choke on so many fish bones tonight that you’re unable to call my name.”
“Two portions,” Gyllipus offers.
“Done,” Scylax says. He rises from the table, stretches his arms, and looks out at the sparsely populated tables of Spartan soldiers. The head chef leers at Scylax from across the mess hall, his arms crossed and left foot tapping impatiently. The cook grabs his crotch and extends his middle finger out in return.
Cooks occupy an odd place in Spartan society. They are full Spartan citizens, but do not attend the agoge or become soldiers and are frequently looked down upon by their neighbors. Within the confines of the mess halls, however, the cooks are treated with a respect usually reserved for kings, which is the only other profession in Sparta determined by birth. By law the cooks are limited only to the use of salt and vinegar seasonings, but nothing prohibits diners from discretely flavoring their own meals and over the centuries the craftiest of cooks have been known to provide ancillary ingredients like anise, Herb-of-Grace, cumin, onions and even black pepper to their patrons in exchange for friendship and favors.
Scylax has perfected the art of exchanging small comforts for the goodwill of people of higher birth, and as a consequence he has a unique glimpse into the tastes and appetitive desires of every last person in Sparta. He knows the king has a fondness for coriander; Echemenes, the Ephor, is known to have problems breathing after eating crabs; Lysander relishes eating hare poached on helot farms; and Gyllipus suffers from an inexplicable and occasional craving for mint, one of the very few extravagances to an otherwise austere demeanor. It’s a peculiar insight Scylax is only just beginning to learn how to use to his advantage.
The cook glances down at Gyllipus untouched bowl of black soup. “I may have a phial of dill back in the kitchen, if you’re interested?” he recommends.
Gyllipus smiles at the suggestion. “That won’t be necessary,” he says, “but thank you for the offer.”
“You’re right, only a clove of garlic would make that that bowl of shit any more appetizing,” says Scylax. He delays his return to the hot cauldrons by scanning the mess in search of another distraction and sees Agis darting around the hall, whispering brief messages into the ears of young soldiers. “Did Agis not ride down to Gythium with others?” Scylax asks.
“I believe he had business at the Gerousia this afternoon,” Gyllipus replies.
“Is that why he moves so swiftly today? Politicking for his old man, the king?” Scylax supposes.
Gyllipus turns his head to watch Agis scurry from table to table. “Most likely, though if we could read the minds of politicians we’d probably have no need for them.”
Scylax grins and peers over at his colleagues tending the to the meal. The head chef is not pleased with Scylax and appears ready to march across the mess to reprimand the young cook. “Come get me when Lysander arrives with the fish and Scylax will make sure you eunuchs eat well,” he says as he departs.
Gyllipus nods silently and continues pecking at his food alone until Agis takes a seat across the table without saying a word. “You seem quiet busy this evening,” he notes of the prince.
“Not as busy as you’re going to be, old friend,” Agis replies. “Be sure to eat up, Gyllipus, the Crypteia begins tonight!”