what you can for him. There’s a good chance we’ll all see Rome again if they get the money they want. At least for a while, we’re worth more alive than dead.’
Gaditicus fought to keep the despair from his voice. A captain who had lost his ship was not likely to find another. Trussed helpless on the deck of the second trireme, he had watched his beloved Accipiter sink beneath the sea in a swirl of bubbles and driftwood. The slaves at the oars had not been released and their screams had been desperate and hoarse until the waters took the ship. His career too had sunk with her, he knew.
The struggle had been brutal, but most of his men had finally been cut down, overwhelmed and attacked on two sides. Again and again, Gaditicus played over the short battle in his mind, looking for ways he could have won. Always he finished by shrugging, telling himself to forget the loss, but the humiliation stayed with him.
He had thought of taking his life to deny them his ransom and the shame it would cause his family. If they could even raise the money.
It would have been easier on them if he had gone down with Accipiter like so many of his men. Instead, he was left to sit in his own filth with the twelve surviving officers and Cabera who had escaped by offering to use his skills as a healer for the pirates. There were always those with wounds that would not close and infections that clung to their genitals after whores in lonely ports. The old man had been busy since the battle and was only allowed to see them once a day to check their own wounds and dressings.
Gaditicus shifted slightly, scratching at the lice and fleas that had infested him since the first night in the cramped and filthy cell. Somewhere above, the men that held them captive swaggered about on the trireme’s decks, rich with prisoners for ransom and the chests of silver stolen from Accipiter’s hold. It had been a profitable risk for them and he grimaced as he recalled their arrogance and triumph.
One of the men had spat in his face after his hands and feet were tied. Gaditicus flushed with anger as he thought of it. The man had been blind in one eye, his face a mass of old scars and stubbly bristle. The white eye had seemed to peer at the Roman captain and the man’s cackle almost made him show his anger and humiliate himself further by struggling. Instead, he had stared impassively, only grunting when the little man kicked him in the stomach and walked away.
‘We should try to escape,’ Suetonius whispered, leaning in close enough for Gaditicus to smell his breath.
‘Caesar can’t be moved at the moment, so put it out of your mind. It will take a few months for the ransom messages to reach the city and a few more for the money to come back to us, if it comes at all. We will have more than enough time to plan.’
Prax too had been spared by the pirates. Without his armour, he seemed much more ordinary. Even his belt had been taken in case the heavy buckle could be used as a weapon and he constantly hitched up his bracae. Of all of them, he had taken the change in fortunes with the least obvious anger, his natural patience helping to keep them all steady.
‘The lad’s right though, Captain. There’s a good chance they’ll just drop us all overboard when they get the silver from Rome. Or the Senate could stop our families making the payment, preferring to forget us.’
Gaditicus bristled. ‘You forget yourself, Prax. The Senate are Romans as well, for all your poor opinions of them. They won’t let us be forgotten.’
Prax shrugged. ‘Still, we should make plans. If this trireme meets another Roman galley, we’ll be sent over the side if they look like boarding us. A bit of chain around our feet would do the job nicely.’
Gaditicus met the eyes of his optio for a few moments. ‘All right. We’ll work out a few things, but if the chance comes, I’m not leaving anyone behind. Caesar has a broken arm as well as the head injury. It will be weeks before he can stand, even.’
‘If he survives,’ Suetonius put in.
Cabera looked at the young officer, his gaze sharp.
‘He is strong, this one, and he has an expert healer tending him.’
Suetonius looked away from the old man’s intense stare, suddenly embarrassed.
Gaditicus broke the silence. ‘Well, we have the time to consider all outcomes, gentlemen. We have plenty of that.’
Casaverius allowed himself a smile of self-congratulation as he surveyed the long kitchen hall. Everywhere, the bustle of the evening was coming to an end, with the last of the orders served hours before.
‘Perfection is in the detail,’ he murmured to himself as he had done every evening for the ten years he had been employed by Cornelius Sulla. Good years, though his once trim figure had swollen alarmingly in the time. Casaverius leaned back against the smooth plaster wall and continued grinding with his pestle and mortar, preparing a mustard seed paste that Sulla loved. He dipped a finger into the dark mixture and added a little oil and vinegar from the row of narrow-necked pots that hung along the walls. How could a good cook resist tasting his own meals? It was part of the process. His father had been even larger and Casaverius took pride in his heaviness, knowing that only a fool would employ a thin cook.
The brick ovens had been closed to the air for long enough and should have cooled. Casaverius motioned to the slaves that they could be raked clean ready for new charcoal in the morning. The air in the kitchen was still thickly sluggish with heat and he pulled a rag from his belt to wipe his brow. With the weight, he seemed to sweat more, he admitted to himself, pressing the already damp cloth against his face.
He considered finishing the paste in one of the cool rooms where iced dishes were prepared, but hated to leave the slaves unattended. He knew they stole food for their families, and in moderation he could forgive them. Left alone, though, they might grow incautious and who knew what would disappear then? He remembered his father complaining about the same thing in the evenings and quickly whispered a prayer for the old man, wherever he was now.
There was a great peace at the end of a day that had gone well. Sulla’s house was known for fine food and when the call came for something special, he enjoyed the excitement and energy that stole over the staff, starting with the moment of anticipation as he opened his father’s sheaf of recipes, untying the leather thongs that bound the valuable parchments and running his finger down the lettering, taking pleasure from the fact that only he could read them. His father had said that every cook should be an educated man and Casaverius sighed for a moment, his thoughts turning to his own son. The lad spent mornings in the kitchens, but his studies seemed to fly from his mind whenever the day was fine. The boy was a disappointment and Casaverius had come to accept that he might never be able to run a grand kitchen on his own.
Still, there were years left before he would leave his plates and ovens for the last time, retiring to his small home in a good district of the city. Perhaps then he might find time to entertain the guests his wife wanted. Somehow, he never managed to bring his expertise into his own home, being satisfied with simple dishes of meat and vegetables. His stomach grumbled a little at the thought and he saw the slaves were removing their own roasted packages of bread and meat from the ashes of the ovens where they had been placed at the end. It was a small loss to the kitchen to be able to send them back to their quarters with a few hot mouthfuls and it made a friendly atmosphere in the kitchens, he was sure.
