by R. G. Bullet
Homera shoved her and Tati into a dingy room at the end of a hall and had Georgia change into white linens. As Georgia stepped into the clothing she could feel the warmth of the marble floor beneath her feet and the smell of incense wafting in from rooms nearby. She longed for a warm bath and food and to be rid of this horrible woman.
“Move faster—you’ve work to do.” Homera summoned in a servant and pointed to Tati.
“Where are you taking her?” cried Georgia, trying to pull Tati back, holding her hand tightly.
“She‘s going swimming—my pony.”
Tati was led away and glanced back at Georgia, letting out a short, feeble whistle.
Homera pushed Georgia through a doorway into a high-ceilinged room with a swimming pool. Immense columns supported the structure, and on the sides numerous statues appeared like ghosts before being concealed by the whirling steam.
They moved around the pool to the other side where half a dozen men reclined on large pillows, content, drinking from wine goblets and eating food held out to them on trays.
Homera waited till their presence was acknowledged by one of the men. The words she spoke next were the most shocking thing Georgia had ever heard.
“My Honor, here is a fresh slave for you.” She pushed Georgia forward.
The men ceased talking and turned to study Georgia from head to toe. A chinless, slight man with a pot belly placed his cup on a table and came closer.
“Ahh pretty, pretty! Very athletic.” He twirled his bony finger in the air and Homera turned Georgia around. The man stepped closer, cupping Georgia’s chin. “Look, Octavio—where do you suppose she is from—Egypt?”
A few of them nodded in agreement.
“Never, look at the eyes. She’s northern,” one of them replied. “I’d stake my best slave on it.”
“She is fine, Homera,” the man said. “Let’s see how she does.”
Homera seemed happy that Georgia had met with his approval. “Rest yourself, sir—she will attend to your ailments.”
The horror of their words made Georgia weak. Who did they think they were? What were they going to do?
A wicker seat and a covered footstool were brought over and the man eased back with a contented sigh. “Start with my feet,” he snapped at Georgia. “I’ve been at the early auctions—a putrid setting.”
“True words sir, a most unpleasant place,” said Homera. She shoved a pan of water into Georgia’s hands, plus clean towels and oils.
Homera forced Georgia down, and with revulsion she started picking the knots of the man’s laces. She removed his sandals with two fingers. His feet were the ugliest she’d ever seen. He had long yellow nails with terrible bunions. She could feel her stomach churn.
Georgia began to rise but Homera pushed her back down by the shoulder. “Do your work now,” she said, pinching Georgia hard. “I will be watching you.”
***
Vincent was dragged up next. He tried to pull away from the guard and demanded to know where Georgia was.
“Feisty and young, I like that,” said Sejanus. “Your girls were taken for a swim and to change clothes.”
Sejanus had the guard put Vincent at a small table, out of the way of the busy chefs. Vincent studied the kitchen’s activities while one of the guards kept a close watch over him.
He counted five roasts turning on the spits inside a hearth that could easily fit his entire rugby team. The hissing from the juices dripping onto the coals gave off an aroma that made his stomach rumble till it hurt.
The shouting from the chefs mingled with the din from the kitchen helpers as they prepared the food. The staff went about its duties with military precision. Some chopped mounds of vegetables while others stirred the contents of large steaming pots. A few of them shot quick disturbing glances at him as they crisscrossed the floor in an intricate dance. Vincent wondered what his tasks would be. Cleaning? Stacking sacks of grains? Peeling? It couldn’t be that bad. He was near food at least, he thought.
A young, harried-looking man with a pronounced limp approached. He was dressed in fine clothes, and it seemed to Vincent like he didn’t belong in the kitchen. A servant shadowed him carrying a large pie and placed it right under Vincent’s nose. It was as if his prayers had been answered.
“My name is Cornelius. I’m the assistant to Augustus Romulus, one of Rome’s greatest political advisors—” the man said proudly, but Vincent’s concentration was fixed on the pie. “Are you hungry, child?” he asked.
Vincent nodded and Cornelius sliced into the pie and handed him a piece. It was still warm from the clay ovens and it melted in Vincent’s mouth. His taste buds burst with delight after the stale bread and water.
“Is it good?” Cornelius inquired, “It is my master’s first choice.”
“Mmm, it’s great!” Vincent moaned with his mouth full. “Can I have some more?”
“No!” Cornelius snapped. “I want you to sample this, instead.”
And as if sent by the gods themselves the servant placed another bowl on the table.
Cornelius took a spoon to a paté, pulling out a great dollop. “Here!”
Vincent took it with both hands.
“Mmm… good too.” In fact it was delicious. After hours of starvation everything was tasty. “What is it?”
Cornelius sighed. “This one likes to ask questions. It’s Liquamen, a sauce of fish and this…” he slid a pot over, “…is Gustum de Praecoquis.” He forked out a few lush apricots swimming in syrup. Vincent watched in rapture as the juice spread slowly over his terracotta plate and he picked one out with his fingers. It was succulent and so different from anything he’d ever tasted. He was just about to lick the plate when the servant took it away with a frown and made a mark on the jar.
Next, Cornelius handed Vincent a chicken breast from a platter of sliced meats and ordered the servants to line up more dishes.
“You like to learn? Then this is Pisciculis,” Cornelius continued. “Tiny fish make for the big taste.”
Vincent took the sample and wolfed it down. “Oh, it’s great too, but can’t we change the order a bit? You know, have the salty stuff first and then…” he waved his finger with mock authority, “…then the sweet things.” He looked up to see Cornelius’s exasperated expression.
“No! You have what I give you and in the order I give it.”
Vincent nodded obediently and took the next offering. “Aaarrh—that’s really—good.” After this he tried to tone down his praise, hoping Cornelius would bring out a lot more food in search of the perfect dish. But it was hardly a problem. Many other platters were lined up.
“Gorgeous,” said Vincent, licking juice off his fingers. “I like that!” he said about the next, then, “Not bad!” He tasted each and every dish and all the while Cornelius watched him like a hawk, “—medium—fine—I’ve tasted better!” Vincent continued his critique.
He made impressive headway sampling the mountain of different foods. But eventually he slowed, and finally held up his hand.
“Stuffed!”
“Stuffed?” asked Cornelius, sounding confused. “Like this pheasant with almonds?” He pushed a portion across the table at Vincent, who felt ready to pop. But Cornelius forced three more dishes on him before he reached for an hourglass. “Watch him,” he said to the guard. “I’ll return.”
The guard behind Vincent, who’d stood like a ramrod until that point, let himself slump a little.
“Ssssstt, ssssst, boy!” he spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Boy, do you feel anything?”
“I feel full,” said Vincent jokingly. He now felt as uncomfortable as he’d felt when he was starving. He arched his back and held his bloated stomach. The smell of food that stirred him to his core earlier was now nauseating, and a cold sweat beaded on his forehead.
But the guard didn’t laugh. “Boy, heed my words. If you feel sharp pains, take the drink over by the table there.” He pointed to a woman who held up a glass and then placed i
t by the side of a pot. “Drink it to the last drop—it’s your only chance—it has helped sometimes.”
Vincent forced a grin. “I couldn’t drink a thing. Eat—that’s my job. I’m a taster.”
“Eat till you die,” said the guard, “You’re not a taster. You’re a tester—testing for poison.”
“WHAT?”
“People are trying to kill Augustus. And they’ve come close to succeeding. Cornelius uses you children from the slums. Three have perished this year in this very kitchen. Use the medicine—it can help.”
“Poison!” cried Vincent.
“There’ll be very sharp pains and it’ll make you bleed but there’s a chance—” the guard stopped talking and abruptly stood at attention.
Cornelius re-entered the kitchen, almost breaking into a run. “Enough. There is no time! Drink this now.” He held out a small cup of brown, slimy liquid.
“What is it?” Vincent cried, backing into the table and knocking several dishes to the floor. “I’m not drinking a thing!” He tried to sidestep them but Cornelius’s servant pounced on him, prying his mouth open. He tipped the contents in and Vincent instantly gagged, spluttering the liquid over his chin and down the front of his clothing. It was bitter and although Vincent spat some out he could feel the rest slide slowly down his throat, and he fell to the floor in a fit of spasms.
***
Two hundred feet away, below the bathhouse floor, Archy and Tullius worked the heating system of the building. Archy was positioned on one side of a furnace, where he fed the fire with wood brought in by a small army of slaves. The heat was fierce and he covered his head with a damp cloth for protection.
He moved quickly, stooping down to throw the logs far back into the fire. He tried to imagine an escape. Pangs of anxiety plagued his mind about Georgia, Vincent, and Tati. Time was running out. The more he thought about it the more it sapped his strength.
The wary guard, who circled the area like a shark, twirled a long stick between his fingers, batting and prodding the workers to keep up the pace.
From time to time in the swirling smoke and confusion, Archy spotted Tullius. His face covered with soot, he worked with another group, pumping the bellows, forcing the hot air through the channels to the center of the building.
When the guard seemed distracted for a moment, Archy took his chance. He dropped a log and rushed over. “Tullius, we have to get out. If we don’t try, we’ll die down here.”
Tullius looked at Archy with a blank expression. “Go back, the guard will lash you.”
“No, we have to leave. Do you see any doorways, Tullius—a place we could run to?”
Tullius took a furtive glance behind him. “The guard, Archy, he’s coming.”
Archy darted back to the fire before the guard spotted him.
Archy felt trapped. Getting them back together would be a miracle. The rug was hidden somewhere in the bathhouse, along with the rest of their belongings. It felt like everything was lost.
***
By early evening Archy and Tullius were marched back to cellar below the kitchen. In the dim light they saw Georgia. Vincent was sprawled lifelessly, his head nestled in her lap.
Archy rushed and knelt by their side. “What happened, Georgia?”
“They’re stuffing food in him to find poison. They keep force-feeding him, then they make him sick and start again—I hate them!” Georgia cried. “I hate this place!”
As she spoke, Tati was shoved through the doorway of the cellar. She was covered in grime. Her hair was so matted it hung like string, dripping over her shredded clothes. Her bright eyes were the only part of her that was recognizable.
After she made a few hand signals, Tullius’s temper flared.
“They’re putting her to work in the drains.” He clenched his fists tightly and kicked a wooden tap off one of the vats and wine gushed onto the floor. “They’re vermin!” he shouted.
Chapter 35
The Legend
The sound of the latch sliding back on the cellar entrance yanked everyone from their sleep. The doors flew open and the early morning sunlight beamed down. Dust puffed up as two men clomped their way down the stairs.
“Wake up, you lazy dogs! You’ll sleep when you’re dead.”
Archy checked his watch. He had just six hours to find their way out—six hours to remember the return verse, make the Restitution, and find the gateway. If he could get to the rug, their troubles would be over in seconds—but there hadn’t been a chance.
The men pulled and prodded the children up the stairs. Homera was already in the kitchen, waiting like a spider to grab Georgia and Tati. Tullius was shunted off in the opposite direction, leaving Archy and Vincent alone. They witnessed the girls being dragged down the corridor.
The guard steered Archy and Vincent by the shoulders and made them sit at a table at the back of the kitchen.
“The banquet starts today. They need more testers,” the guard whispered to Vincent. “Tell your friend what to do if he becomes sick.”
Vincent smiled weakly at the guard, and then looked at Archy. “I never thought I’d ever say this, but—I miss the food at Rushburys.” Vincent’s throat was so sore, even the water a woman brought over was painful for him to swallow.
As soon as Cornelius’s servant presented a plate of steaming fish, Vincent let out a long and heavy groan. Archy doubted if Vincent could go through all of it again.
“Good, more help.” A smile sprung onto Cornelius’s pasty face. He slit open the fish with a knife. “Start with this!”
Just as Archy and Vincent were about to take their first bite they were spared by a commotion coming from the courtyard. It distracted everybody in the kitchen.
“SEJANUS!” A voice filtered from behind the doors.
The women ceased their chores to straighten their aprons and smooth their hair. Smiles sprung onto their faces, except for Cornelius who lost his. Archy got the impression that this visitor was well-known and well-liked.
The neighing of horses, whistles, and cheers from the street filled the room. Sejanus disappeared around the corner and ordered the doors open. “Come in, come in…” The voices grew louder as they approached the kitchen.
A low, loud, and friendly voice sounded out. “How is my old friend Sejanus?”
“I should be the one asking you, Decimus. You surprised me. We could have prepared the kitchen a little better for you. It’s hot and busy this time of the day. You must think me ill-mannered.”
“I do! I’ll have my women beat you later.” A thunderous laugh reverberated off the walls.
Sejanus came into view. Right behind him was a swarthy, bald man, built like a wrestler and dressed like a senator in a crisp, white linen toga. His barrel chest gave him the impression he would burst at any second.
Cornelius turned his back and slunk out of the kitchen. The staff and servants, however, seemed starry-eyed and stood frozen in their positions.
“Let’s work!” said Sejanus, clapping his hands above his head. “We have the banquets and committees here at noon.” The staff seemed reluctant to do anything other than gawk in the direction of the guest.
“Decimus, you are hungry. Pray, take your rest and we will bring you whatever you wish,” said Sejanus.
The large man had abundant energy and seemed to want to look around. He stood next to a servant attending to a huge bubbling pot. “You made all this today?” he said, smiling down at her. She giggled like a schoolgirl and could barely meet his eyes. Decimus plunged his finger into the pot. “Mmm... marvelous. My own mother couldn’t have made it better.”
He spoke to everyone, squeezing arms, slapping shoulders. He even gave one of the servants a kiss on the cheek, all the while complimenting them on the food. They loved it.
Sejanus shuffled along behind him with a fixed, fake grin. He patted the staff on the back too, and said things like, “Yes, very good… now back to work.” Archy could see that this had no effect whatsoever.
“What are we eating?” he boomed, looking at the guard standing behind the boys.
“Fish, it’s just fish,” said Vincent.
“Well, do you share?”
Archy cut in. “I would find something else if I were you.”
Decimus tilted his head like a dog that just heard the squeak of rats. “You can’t share your fish with me?”
“No, this is mine—all of it,” said Archy quietly, cupping his hands around the plate.
Decimus looked at him with his beady, dark eyes. “Where’s the man who was by your side? It was Cornelius, wasn’t it? The mouse that serves Augustus.”
Archy and Vincent didn’t respond. So Decimus redirected his question to the guard. “Speak, my brother. Where’s our little Cornelius?”
The guard shifted awkwardly and shot a look in the direction of the main doorway.
Decimus understood. He bore a wide smile on his face but it contradicted his wild eyes. He twisted around, his hands spread out dramatically, mindful of his audience. On the back of his head Archy noticed a tattoo of a gaping, blue fish. It spread down the trunk-like neck and the tail flanked his enormous shoulders.
“Where’s Cornelius? COR…NEEE…LI…US! Come! Taste your own food. It may be spicy. It may taste nicely, but then again it could be dicey.” The kitchen servants clapped wildly.
Decimus took the plates that were in front of Archy and Vincent, handing them over to the cook. “Boys should eat fruit this early, not fish!”
Sejanus looked jittery. “They’re just children from the streets, merely testers—”
“I’m a child of the street, and so are you—are you not?” said Decimus in a cheery voice but wearing a menacing stare.
