‘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.
The new slave, Dalcius, passed 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,