XXXI: The Colloquies: Kitchen Ears

Two enormous clamshells sit atop the grill rack, each with golden brown upon their banded domes. Their crusty skin is cool enough to touch, and Niko gently detaches each layer, popping the edges before pulling them free.

The thicker, unattractive mold will make a good bottom—this is the story of his life—and that makes him smile. He tosses a handful of semolina into its hallow, spreading and rubbing the grains around before laying down raw cabbage leaves. These large verdant blankets will stop the juices from saturating his clamshell pastry.

Aedan, the druid from Britannia, ascends like a spider from the tallest pan shelf, his sinewy figure hosting a sepia tunic that’s too big and reddish leggings that are too small.

With a shark’s black eyes, he ogles the long pan and its bounty of little meatballs sizzling in a shallow layer of olive oil. Cautious fingers pluck one up, bouncing it from one hand to the next until the heat becomes bearable. Cupid’s lips purse before blowing, but one bite elicits a scowl after popping it into his mouth.

“Don’t you dare spit that out in here,” thunders Welle, whose storm comes with the pleasant scent of lavender.

The tall blond lords over the druid, who stares at him while chewing slowly. After swallowing, Aedan hops onto the table and crawls to Niko like a gangly monkey.

“These are shit,” comes his emotionless Greek. “Where are the pork ones?”

“Get your ass down.” Welle yanks his tunic and topples him to his feet. “These contain beef for tonight’s guests,”

“Why only beef?” asks Aedan.

Welle turns a wary eye to Niko. “Patricians love their soft meats,”

Gallic woman Galbi enters the kitchen, her ginger hair braided, brown robes clean, and a decorative green rope strewn across her pregnant waist.

Each new year, the Servian village residency shifts as freshly captured Gauls arrive with every Caesarian victory. A little person since birth, the Atrabati woman, Galbi, came last summer. No taller than Niko’s tummy, she climbs a chair and gently kisses his cheek before grabbing an apple.

The blond Gaul sits while she takes a paring knife and begins slicing.

“Is everyone ready for the night?” she asks in Latin, tossing a slice to the druid, who catches it in his mouth.

“Don’t feed him like that,” Welle scolds. “It’s unsightly,”

Niko and Galbi grin as the druid grabs a green apple from the bowl. Standing beside Welle, he bites loudly into the crisp skin.

“Move along, or I move you,” he warns in Greek, and then measures the druid’s exiting footsteps before barking: “Don’t even think of showing your face to the guests,”

Aedan stands under the arch for a moment, then changes direction.

“Wellet,” Galbi speaks the Gallic language, unaware Niko knows it. “Have you given any more thought to my request?”

“I have thought about it,” Welle says, then looks her in the face. “I’m not suitable for what’s needed,”

“Your grandfather’s blood and your mother’s position make you the reasonable choice.” She climbs onto the table and sits with her tiny legs swinging off the side. “And let’s not ignore your father’s blood,”

“Let’s ignore his blood, shall we,” says Welle with a frown.

Niko begins cutting the first of his honey cake domes, using a wire to gently garrote its spongey flesh. Thin layers are key, and his keen eyes ensure each is uniform in size.

“This village is a tribe, now,” she whispers. “We must make amends to the horned prince,”

“Let’s not discuss him here,” Welle says, watching Niko take up a wood-handled peel. He slides its flat metal paddle under each layer, setting each thin circle onto the table.

“Didn’t you have a druid coming this year?” Welle asks.

“No druid will come over the mountain, not after years of collapsed fires.” Galbi sighs before offering him a slice of the apple. “Luga told me about the first failed offering.” Concern hardens her brow. “An alpine winter without snow. I cannot imagine,”

“The boys said the wells froze that winter.” Welle takes a piece from her when offered. “Lady Scipia refused to help in the master’s absence, so Lady Vita barreled the villa’s bathwater and sent it over.”

Niko slices up the smaller cake and lays out its pieces while recalling the ugliness that followed Vita’s decision that winter.

“When I got here in spring, I heard it rained from October to mid-December,” Welle adds, eyeing Niko. “Mold caught the village grain stores, and Lady Vita replaced the moldy cereal at great expense to the family coffers,”

“Luga said Scipia wanted to toss her daughter out after that,” Galbi says. “But then she said that some unspoken thing between them kept the girl here,”

“Luga needs to mind her business,” Welle snaps.

“Everyone knows, Wellet,” says Galbi.

Niko ladles each layer with thyme-infused honey before the stacking begins.

“No,” Welle counters. “Lord Skipio is ignorant of that ALLEGED situation, and until Lady Vita decides otherwise, he will remain ignorant,”

Niko sets the largest circle on the bottom before using a bowl to cut the next layer, which is just a nail-width smaller.

“I don’t intend to spend my first winter here suffering,” she tells him. “I’ve suffered enough, haven’t you?”

“My first winter here, two years ago, it snowed like I’ve never seen.” Welle changes the subject. “There were no rabbits, birds, or deer,”

“You know what he’ll come for next, after taking the water and the food,” she hops off the table. “After the fires displease him again,”

Welle rises and walks to the ovens. “I don’t want to talk about that,”

“Of course not,” she follows. “You’ve got nothing to lose,”

“I’ve lost as much as you, if not more,” he claims, facing her.

“This tribe, this village, cannot lose their children or their elderly.” Galbi joins him by the fire. “Sickness will come. It’s all the great horned one has left in his bag of misery,”

Welle raises two fingers, silencing her.

A golden, terraced tower stands several hands high, and Niko tops its narrow body of successive receding layers with the smooth round top of his smallest cake.

“You’re a true master, Niko,” Welle marvels, joining him at the table.

“This honey,” Galbi speaks Latin, taking the dipper by its wand and raising its grooved ball-end. “Will the girls have to drizzle it over the pieces before they’re served?”

Niko shakes his head, pulls a scroll from his apron pocket, and shows her his drawing of the cake on the feast table, honey dripping over its layers from the top.

“I see.” Galbi eyes the many unused layers. “What of these then?”

“Those will be going to the village with you,” Welle tells her. “Lady Vita insists on sending everyone working tonight home with their own feast,”

“So that’s what old Cassia’s up to,” she says. “She and the crones were setting up tables when the rest of us boarded the carts for here,”

Welle takes her arm and walks her to the service cubby under the arch.

“Even if I agree, I can only master the ceremony,” he whispers. “I’m no druid. I cannot lure the horned one to feast—”

She pats his hand. “-we have the Ancalite,”

“Are you mad?” he objects. “That little monster barely qualifies as human,”

“From the edge of the world, the island Owl comes,” Galbi chants. “His talons red with the blood of a thousand wolves,”

Welle’s mouth falls open. “There’s prophecy?”

“He burns the master and returns the golden son,” Galbi nods before shoving another apple slice in her mouth. “That druid who drank herself to death last year. She foretold of an owl in a Roman cage,”

“In the name of Caturix!” Welle rails.

“Wellet, you have a way with the Ancalite.” Galbi follows him to the fishpond. “The owl is said to have murdered thousands, and yet you bring him to heel like a trained pup,”

The tall blond crosses his arms over his chest. “Bringing his sort into something like this will lead to that one thing I want nothing to do with,”

“-We know,” she says. “But blood is the lifeforce,”

“We tribes of the Helvetii have no use for such barbarity,”

She recoils. “You think us backward?”

“I’m not looking down on you or anyone else in the village,”

“Are you sure?” she demands. “Because right now, I can’t see you standing so far up on your high ridge,”

Welle casts an apologetic gaze.

“We continentals are not cave-dwelling savages,” she adds. “But two years of rebuked solstices makes me desperate for these people. They’re all the family I have left, Wellet,”

A moment of silence comes between them.

“Damn you, Galbi,” he mumbles, pulling her out of the kitchen.

Niko admires his honey-cake beehives, and while pleased at how both look just like his drawings, his eyes catch movement near the wall.

The druid’s hand slinks out from behind the grain sacks, taking hold of a rat trap, waking the trapped rodent inside its reedy box.

*

The majestic peak casts a shadow over the villa, a protective mother whose smothering proximity is a trick to the eyes.

Memories of her many visits to this plantation unravel like a fallen scroll. Her mother and Uncle came from lands so far east of Parthia that no Roman name existed.

Mother, a wealthy man’s battle bride, settled into an opulent domus in Mediolanum that soon became lonely in Roman bigotry’s shadow. Uncle, with eyes as narrow and face just as wide, had been Mother’s only solace when no one else came calling.

One day, however, shortly after Maxima’s birth, Uncle left for the wilds of Lepontine.

Years later, she made her first of many all-day rides to these rugged peaks so that Mother could see Uncle when he wasn’t tending the basement baths. Mother often hosted Lady Servia on the ride home, dropping the woman and her toddling girl, Vita, to the Servian domus in Comum.

So many years passed like sand grains falling through the narrowest middle.

The pleasant stink of roasting wood filters through the shutters, and as the carpentum slows to a stop, a bevy of guests gathers on the grand round porch.

“Juno’s tits,” she gripes. “Mucia Jeventia is here,”

“Is that why we’re still sitting in this carriage?” Handsome and lightly bearded, Titus Flavius awaits an answer that never comes. “Zima?”

“A moment, please,” she snaps, then regrets it.

Maxima Ursia feels the weight of her years for the first time in weeks.

After her husband’s death, she’d settled into a quiet life at her parent’s eastern Mediolanum domus overseeing the river. This peace ended when Father announced her betrothal to a Flavii, one fresh from Caesar’s wars in Gaul.

Wealthy timber people, the Flavii, helped found Mediolanum.

Their most successful member, a commander in the Punic Wars, had married a dark woman enslaved by the invading Carthaginians. A generation later, their cinnamon-skinned grandson married a Nubian, affording many future heirs a heavy bounty of melanin.

Maxima, a dutiful daughter, had accepted her father’s edict.

With her childbearing years behind her, she assumed her groom to be the eldest Flavii, a widower two years her junior. With her face painted and her vestments expensive, she’d accompanied Father to the Flavian villa north of the city but nearly lost her nerve when the youngest greeted them at the door.

Maxima hadn’t seen Titus since his youth when he left for schooling in Comum. He’d stood before her, a strapping man with all of his teeth and a head of short, wooly hair. His boisterous demeanor had led to a private confession once they were alone: the prospect of marrying her thrilled him like nothing else.

Clearly, this man had suffered a head injury in the Gallic Wars.

Later, after their dinner conversation proved her wrong about his mental state, she’d been confident that their fathers had made a mistake. With that in mind, Maxima wasted little time. Certain one of her younger sisters would replace her before any wedding took place, she’d passionately bedded the virile Titus, her love for him igniting like a flame that still burns, even when she’s grousing at him.

A strong hand gently grasps her thigh. “We must go inside, Zima.”

Maxima sighs before the words come pouring out.

“The last time you dragged me to one of these things, Mucia the Elder ignored me the whole night. Then, she convinced every lady at that feast to ignore me. I sat alone the entire night with to speak with,”

Titus gives a start. “Is that why you cried when we got home?”

Maxima stares at her lap, where crimson wool promises to catch any new tears.

“Zima.” His hand finds hers. “You should have told me,”

“A man cannot put himself between two sparring women,” she says.

Warm brown eyes shine boldly. “A husband will fight anyone for his wife,”

Maxima takes his kiss as the carriage door opens.

“Say nothing, Titus, I mean it,” she warns as he steps out. “If Mucia pulls any nonsense here, I’ll just retire to whatever room little Vita scrounges up for me,”

“Vita’s not little anymore,” he reminds her.

“I would hope not,” she laughs. “I spent more time with that child on the road than her own mother ever did,”

“And tonight,” Titus leers, stealing another kiss. “You will spend more time with me,”

“We’re not sharing a room,” she reminds him.

“Who is to say we can’t?” He watches as she pulls her sable leggings down past her ankles. “You should’ve worn socks,”

“Socks are for children and the elderly.” She gathers her sable toga around her shoulders before taking his helping hand arm down from the carriage. “You’re right. I am old enough now to wear them,”

“Don’t be absurd, woman,” he scolds, grabbing her backside.

Maxima slaps his hand away but cannot help but smile.

“We’re going inside for some good food and great wine.” His hands surround her face. “If no one speaks to you, find me.” An ornery kiss warms her heart but chafes her lips.

“While bathing tonight,” she scolds. “Shave that beard,”

“It’s winter,” he says, scratching into it. “I must protect myself from the cold,”

“Skipio remains clean-shaven,” she says, pointing to the Servian heir on the porch. “You don’t see him shivering,”

“That’s because he’s insane,” he tells her. “You know, he shaves everything,”

“I know,” she laughs. “I’ve read Leo et Bubo,”

Titus turns and raises a finger. “Let’s not bring up that series,”

“Does he not know about the latest scroll?” she asks.

“Oh, he knows,” Titus whispers. “It’s a delicate subject,”

“Surely, he didn’t do all those things to those druids. The writer embellishes,” she says, but when Titus remains serious, she blinks. “Did he do all those things?”

“We’ll speak of it another time,” he mumbles.

“Wait,” she grasps his arm. “Is the Owl here?”

“No longer in a cage,” Titus nods. “If you see him, just don’t look him in the eyes,”

“Is he that barbaric?” she presses. “Surely they wouldn’t let him walk about if he was as deadly as he was in Britannia,”

His arm drapes across her shoulder, and she slips away and moves in behind him.

“What are you doing?”

“Just lead the way, Titus,”

“No Flavian man makes his wife walk behind him,”

“Let me hide back here until we’re inside,”

“Woman,” he scoops her off her feet and marches to the porch.

“Stop this!” Maxima yells out, laughing. “Put me down,”

“Friends, Romans, Countrymen,” he shouts, gaining everyone’s attention. “Come and meet my new wife!”

The Servian heir approaches, his smoothness countering Planus Caesar’s neatly trimmed beard. Behind them is Nona Axsia, her rosy cheeks full of mirth.

Titus sets his wife down, and she embraces the bosomy woman.

“I’m so happy for you,” gushes Nona.

“How have you been, girl?” Maxima asks, kissing her cheek.

“I’m better than I was yesterday,” Nona says sheepishly. “Are you truly married now?”

Maxima raises her arm. “Look at what this fool gave me.” The silver chain around her forearm is smooth, with a tight weave that never catches her skin.

Skipio studies its finery and lets out a long whistle. Planus, however, cannot help but needle: “How many trees did your father chop down to afford this?”

Titus frowns—even when irritated, her man looks magnificent.

“What about the wedding?” Actus appears, eyes searching hers; Maxima has no heart to disappoint her baby brother.

“We’ve already had it,” says Titus, cuffing the back of his neck, a puckish glint in his eye.

“We were crossing from Bellagio,” she tells them, a story that fills her with more joy than she deserves. “And he finds a priest on the barge. It was so impetuous,”

“It’s so Roman,” Nona sighs, hand on her chest.

“She couldn’t refuse me.” Titus pulls a boyish face. “I gave her my puppy eyes,”

“Marriage on a barge,” says Skipio. “That’s one way to keep the costs down,”

“I wager he spent all he had on that binding chain,” cracks Planus.

“I was supposed to give you away,” Actus pouts. “I spent fifty denarii on a new tunic,”

Their circle suddenly widens when Vita Servia jumps into Titus’s arms, nearly bowling him over. Fashionable in shimmering red and green, she congratulates Titus before detaching and fixing her bashful gaze on Maxima.

“Lady Flavia.” Vita fondles her mossy toga. “Do you remember me?”

“Why yes,” Maxima smiles. “How could I ever forget you, Vita?”

The young woman spins around. “I’ve grown quite a bit,”

“You’re a true Lady,” says Maxima, returning the embrace.

“I’m so envious.” Vita’s eyes give her the once over. “I scrub my skin every day and soak my hair weekly, but I’ll never be as stunning as you are right now,”

Maxima is caught by surprise. “Oh, stop this,”

“I mean it.” Vita’s brow furrows. “Had I known you were still this beautiful, I would’ve told Titus to keep you in Mediolanum,”

Maxima laughs while Nona skips away, seemingly keen to avoid Lady Vita.

The poor woman retreats to the stairs, retreating when the three patrician women emerge from the front door.

“What an incredible shade of blue,” Vita declares.

Nona stands like a rabbit caught in the woods.

“The lacework is so intricate,” says the Servian heir, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. “Who is this fashionable guest of mine?” she calls out.

A nervous Tullus calls from the porch, “Am I supposed to introduce her?”

“You’re her husband, man,” Planus bellows in mockery. “We’ve been standing here wondering where she came from and where she’s going,”

Laughter booms, its echo bringing servant women to the upstairs windows. Even the elegant trio on the porch offers smiles.

“I’m Nona Volina,” she says, bowing.

“Welcome to my home, Nona Volina.” Vita warmly embraces her and takes her by the hand. “You’re going to tell me where you got that frock because if I don’t get one just like it, there’s going to be trouble around here,”

Maxima comes alongside them. “Nona’s mother is a remarkable seamstress,”

“Does she work north of the Po?” asks Vita.

Nona nods, “She has many private clients,”

“I wasn’t aware she worked outside Venus Hill,” says Mucia.

Silence blankets the group.

“Venus Hill?” Vita says in awe. “That’s a rather luxurious establishment,”

Maxima smiles inside as the patrician men appear unsettled by Vita’s familiarity—patrician women aren’t to know of brothels and whores.

“Who did you hear that from?” asks Skipio.

“Certainly not from you,” Planus cracks, lightening the mood again.

“Our sisters serving Venus get the best food, oil, and clothing.” Vita shakes her head. “They’re lucky to have your mother,”

“She made this dress for me to wear here,” Nona boasts. “She came here as a girl for your parents’ wedding.”

Maxima flinches, for it is bad form to mention the recently deceased to their heirs. Luckily, the lady of the house lets it pass with a casual grace.

“My dear,” Vita whispers. “You must light a candle at their shrine inside,”

“I shouldn’t have spoken of them,” Nona whispers back, head down.

“No worries, dear,” Vita whispers with a grin. “You didn’t kill them,”

Maxima stifles her laughter before deciding to help. “Nona, girl, did your mother recall anything interesting about her visit?”

“Oh yes,” Nona says quickly. “She went on and on about Neptune’s feast room?”

“Other than the baths,” says Planus. “The feast room is the best part of this place,”

“I thought you might think Welle to be the best part of this place?” Vita teases.

“Lady Vita!” comes a cry from the porch.

A tall blond Gaul stands on the stairs, his cheeks growing pink.

“Well, our feast room hasn’t changed,” Vita smiles brightly, ignoring her insulted servant and taking Nona by the arm before grabbing Maxima’s. “We three must get her back up here for a visit,”

Maxima winks at Nona. “That sounds wonderful,”

“I’m desperate for something warm before the first real snow comes,” Vita adds, walking past Mucia the Elder without offering a word. “We haven’t covered the peristyle yet, but the braziers are full of wood and plenty hot,”

“Excuse me,” Claudia speaks up before they enter the foyer.

Vita pauses to study the well-dressed trio before calling her house girl, Marilla, who appears instantly.

“Your mistresses and I will be having some wine before dinner,” she says to them, then speaks to the girl, “Marilla, take these three upstairs so they can prepare their mistress’s rooms,”

Claudia’s eyes widen before she turns with a sour look toward her husband.

“That’s my wife you’re talking to,” snaps Pontius.

Skipio steps between them. “And this is the Lady of House Servii,”

“Apologies, Servius Tribune,” Pontius stammers, to his wife’s disgust.

A shocked Vita releases Maxima and Nona.

“Bye Jove, I’m so ignorant. Apologies.” She puts a comforting hand on her brother’s arm, signaling him to step away. She then bows slightly to all three, welcoming them to her home.

“Claudia Fabia?” She squints. “Is that really you?”

“Surely you remember her and I, Vita.” Decima steps from their united front. “We played together as girls when your mother brought you to Comum,”

“Oh, forgive me, ‘Sima, yes, again, I have no words for my ill behavior. It’s just that,” Vita speaks with sincerity, “well, Claudia, you’ve aged so much since we were girls,”

“Gentlemen,” the Gaul speaks before Claudia’s head splits like a gourd tossed upon the road. “No doubt your journey was long. Lord Skipio has wine waiting for you in his studio,”

“Yes,” Vita claps her hands. “Marilla, take these ladies to the front rooms.” She takes hold of Maxima and Nona before addressing the trio once more. “I hope you ladies join us down in the baths before dinner,”

Mucia the Elder’s color deepens, but before Maxima can chuckle, a grown Opita Plinia joins them, looking very much like a young man.

“You came,” says Vita, bringing her hand to him for a kiss.

“I couldn’t refuse an invitation from you,” he says, kissing it.

“Let’s get downstairs.” Vita retakes their arms again and leads them through the foyer. “I find that a good bath cures every sort of awkwardness,”

Maxima trades a delighted glance with Titus.

“Are you…” Skipio moves alongside Opiter. “Are you ogling my sister’s backside?”

“…what?” the young man jumps.

Planus steps to the other side of him. “He was definitely staring at something,”

Skipio pulls Opiter into a headlock. “We need to go over the rules if you’re to stay overnight in this house,” he says, dragging poor Opiter past the stairwell door.

“My dear boy,” Planus follows, mouthful of mandarin. “You better keep those eyes to yourself,”

Maxima kisses Titus as he passes. “Be easy with…him, he wasn’t born a brute,”

“There’s no such thing as easy in these mountains,” Titus whispers. “Enjoy your bath, and say hello to your uncle,”

Her man rushes after his friends, while Tiberius Juventius whispers to Marcus Nautius. The loose-necked man appears shocked by what he’s told before making a beeline to that lecher, Pontius, who’s still suffering a mouthful from his insulted wife.