him, bearing a metal tray of spice pots, ready to be placed back on their shelves. Casaverius smiled to him as he began unloading the tray.
He was a good worker and the broker at the sales had not lied when he said he knew his way round a kitchen. Casaverius considered that he might allow him to prepare a dish for the next banquet, under his watchful eye.
‘Make sure the spices go in the right places, Dalcius,’ he said.
The big man nodded, smiling. He certainly wasn’t a talker. That beard might have to be cut off, Casaverius thought. His father had never let a beard into his kitchens, saying they made the place look untidy.
He tasted his mustard paste again and smacked his lips appreciatively, noting that Dalcius finished his task quickly and neatly. From his scars, he looked more like an old fighter, but there was nothing bullish about the man. If there had been, Casaverius couldn’t have had him in the kitchens, where the endless rushing and carrying always meant a few would bump into each other. Bad tempers couldn’t survive down below the rich houses, but Dalcius had proved amiable, if silent.
‘I will need someone to help me tomorrow morning, to prepare the pastries. Would you like to do that?’ Casaverius didn’t realise he was speaking slowly, as if to a child, but Dalcius never seemed to mind and his silences invited the manner. There was no malice in the fat cook, and he was genuinely pleased when Dalcius nodded to him before going back into the stores. A cook had to have an eye for good workers, his father had always said. It was the difference between working yourself into an early grave and achieving perfection.
‘… and perfection is in the detail,’ he murmured again to himself.
At the end of the long kitchen hall, the door to the house above opened and a smartly dressed slave entered. Casaverius straightened, laying his mortar and pestle aside without thought.
‘The master sends his apologies for the late hour and wonders if he may be sent something cold before he sleeps, an ice dish,’ the young man said.
Casaverius thanked him, pleased as always with the courtesy.
‘For all his guests?’ he asked quickly, thinking.
‘No, sir, his guests have departed. Only the general remains.’
‘Wait here, then. I will have it ready in a few moments.’
The kitchens went from end-of-evening stupor to alertness in the time it took Casaverius to issue new orders. Two of the kitchen runners were sent down the steps to the ice rooms, far below the kitchens. Casa strode under a low arch and through a short corridor to where the desserts were prepared.
‘A lemon ice, I think,’ he muttered as he walked. ‘Beautiful bitter southern lemons, made sweet and cold.’
Everything was in place as he entered the cool dessert room. Like the main kitchen, the walls were hung with dozens of amphorae filled with syrups and sauces, made and refilled whenever the kitchens were quiet. There was no hint of the oven heat in there and he felt the sweat chill on his heavy body with a pleasurable shiver.
The ice blocks, wrapped in rough cloth, were brought up in minutes and crushed under his direction until the ice was a fine slurry. To this he added the bitter-sweet lemon and stirred it in, just enough to flavour without overpowering. His father had said the ice must not be yellow and Casaverius smiled as he noted the colour and fine texture, using a ladle to scoop the mixture into the glass bowls on a serving tray.
He worked quickly. Even in the cool room the ice was melting and the journey through the kitchens would have to be fast. He hoped that one day Sulla would allow another passage to be cut in the rock under his luxurious home, so that the iced desserts could be brought straight up. Still, with care and speed, the dishes would reach his table almost intact.
After only a few minutes, the two bowls were full of the white ice and Casaverius sucked his fingers, groaning in exaggerated pleasure. How good it was to taste cold in the summer! He wondered briefly how much silver coin the two bowls represented, but it was an unimaginable sum. Drivers and carts transported huge blocks of ice from the mountains, losing half in the journey. They were brought down to the dripping darkness of the ice rooms below him, there to melt slowly, but giving cool drinks and desserts for all the summer months. He reminded himself to check that the supplies were adequate. It was almost time for a new order.
Dalcius entered the room behind him, still carrying his spice tray.
‘May I watch you prepare the ices? My last master never had them.’
Casaverius motioned him in cheerfully.
‘The work is done. They must be rushed through the kitchens before they begin to melt.’ Dalcius leaned over the table and his arm knocked over the jug of sticky syrup in a wide yellow stain. Casaverius’ good humour vanished on the instant.
‘Quick, you idiot, fetch cloths to clean it up. There is no time to waste.’
The big slave looked terrified and he stammered, ‘I … I’m sorry. I have another tray here, master.’
He held out the tray and Casaverius lifted the bowls, cleaning them quickly with his own sweat-soaked rag. No time to be sensitive, he thought. The ice was melting. He placed the bowls on the tray and wiped his fingers irritably.
‘Don’t just stand there, run! And if you trip over your own feet, I’ll have you whipped.’ Dalcius moved quickly out of the room, and Casaverius began to wipe up the spilled mess. Perhaps the man was too clumsy for more difficult tasks.
Outside in the corridor, it was the work of a moment for Tubruk to empty the vial of poison into the bowls, stirring it in with a finger. That done, he raced through to the kitchen and handed the tray to the waiting slave.
The eyes that had seemed so nervous looked steadily at the retreating back as the door to the house above closed behind him. Now he must escape, but there was bloody work to do first. He sighed. Casaverius was not a bad man, but one day in the future, even with the beard cut off and his hair grown back to its normal length, the cook might still be able to recognise him.
Feeling suddenly weary, he turned back towards the cool rooms, touching the bone-handled knife under his tunic as he walked. He would make sure it looked like a murder rather than suicide. That should keep Casaverius’ family safe from revenge.
‘Did you give him the tray?’ Casa snapped as Tubruk re-entered the small cool room.
‘I did. I am sorry, Casaverius.’
The cook looked up as Tubruk stepped quickly towards him. The man’s voice had deepened slightly and the usual manner was missing. He saw the blade and fear and confusion coursed through him.
‘Dalcius! Put that down!’ he said, but Tubruk shoved the dagger neatly into the fleshy chest, bursting the heart. Twice more he stabbed it home to be sure.
Casaverius fought for breath, but it would not come. His face purpled and his hands flailed, knocking the ladles and jugs off the tables with a crash.
Finally, Tubruk stood, feeling sick. In all his years as a gladiator and a legionary, he had never murdered an innocent and he felt stained by it. Casaverius had been a likeable man and Tubruk knew the gods cried out against those that hurt the good. He steadied himself, trying to drag his gaze away from the fat man’s body where it had slid onto the floor. He left quietly, his footsteps
