Bookworm Gladiator

There was a sign that read Culina above the kitchen archway. Inside, several maids—hands elbow deep in soap water—were busy scrubbing away the dirty dishes. Castor berated them, just as a dozen more plates were brought in from the atrium. The guests are still holed up in there, then. I hope no one asking for me.

“You!” Castor pointed at Merula, “Where have you been, eh?” The man had a duck-like quack of a voice, and it screeched when it was raised. Castor was the kitchen-master of this palace, and since the kitchens were the beating heart of any bustling compound, Castor essentially had dominion over all the servants. His own little kingdom to rule.

Merula hid behind my toga; she clutched the cloth tight, almost unraveling it. “She’s been attending to me, bustler,” I snapped. My temper was short, partly because of my deep exhaustion from the day, and a little because of my missing sandal—where had I lost it, again?

But mostly, I couldn’t stand the way he spoke to Merula. I didn’t have to say anything further, though; for when Castor saw me, his bald head drained of all the blood and anger. His eyes widened. For a moment, it left me confused, but then I remembered; I’d beat the shit out of him earlier for laying hands on Merula. Oh Jupiter, it’d been a long day.

“Listen, Castor, about earlier…”

The kitchen-master, struck dumb, hopped in fear at my voice. He jolted out of the kitchen before I could say my peace. “Well, that’s that,” I commented and patted Merula on the head. She was already walking towards the large pot in the center of the kitchen, the one that held the communal stew; it was ever-brewing and constantly stirred.

But the silly girl tried to grab the pot and tilt it towards her to get a better look, and if I hadn’t stopped her, she would have toppled it over. “For Rumina’s sake, child!” I cried, “You could have burned yourself to a crisp! How would you have liked that? To live the rest of your life like as a fried chip?”

I saw Merula’s eye tear a bit, and I had to force myself to calm down. Gods, I need sleep.

“Master? We’re out of stew, perhaps we can prepare ye something else?” A maid asked. She dried her hands on a piece of dirty cloth, which she threw over her shoulder. “Or maybe some olives? We don’t have any bread, though, but I can send the girl here to go steal some grain from the neighbors and I can see if—

I held up my hand, “please, no need for that. You should go rest now.” Both of the servant-women looked as tired as I felt. Their hemp tunics were stained with the day’s sweat and now covered in food scraps from the noble’s dinner plates. Their feet were swelled up. Why weren’t they given shoes? I made a mental note to speak with Atia about that.

As the women cleared up after themselves, I poked around the shelves and the closets; surely, there was something that I could whip up for everyone? Hobbling around with one sandal only made the exploration that much more tiresome. Eventually, I just threw the sandal away.

Wiggling my toes, I realized the sandal-less foot had swollen up—much like the barefoot servants’. Well, at least it’s just one foot. My sore foot, as if reacting to my awareness, began to throb along with my heartbeat.

“Merula, dear, let’s just make some stew,” I said, plopping down on the closest stool. I stretched my legs, giving the muscles some time to breathe. “Merula?”

The young child approached me with a handful of mint and some other herbs. She offered it to me as if it was a gift. The rags she wore were ripped and dirty, and there were bruises along her arms still; Castor had certainly left his mark. “I’ll do that,” I said, and took the plants from her hand. I looked around for a mortar and pestle to grind the seasoning. “Gather some vegetables if you can, anything you can find.”

The girl nodded.

Merula was definitely one of the stranger ones. I’d asked around about her origins but no one could really say where they’d gotten her. The maid who’d bought her from the slavers had long since been sold herself to another household. I’m sure people had asked Merula some personal questions in the beginning, but she was either mute or had never learned to speak.

She was an orphan child; working in the household of a mad-woman; and amongst people who were not her kin. She had no one and nothing at present. Even her past was empty, and it was unlikely she’d ever have a future.

As I watched her run around the kitchen, gathering vegetables and stuffing them in the sack she’d made out of her dress—a burlap sack, really—the pain in my foot subsided. Or at least, I was able to push it to the back of my mind. With a grunt that reached deep into my gut, I heaved myself off the stool, and limped to the nearest mortar. It was made of a dark, textured stone with a long, hefty pestle nearby.

Some herbs hung from the ceiling above. I snatched some more mint, thyme, and something else that carried a spicy scent that tickled my nose; the Nokchi might like it. Now, what did my wife used to do?

“Garlic,” I whispered, “better throw in some garlic.”

Merula had come to stand by and watch; she played with the pestle, and poked it so it rolled along the stone counter, though I wondered what she’d done with all the vegetables she’d gathered. “Did you already throw your things in the pot?” I asked her.

She nodded.

Oh mitte. “Well, find me some garlic, then.” Merula strolled off at my command, and I was left unsure whether she really understood what I wanted. It was always a surprise with her; did she really understand everything or did she just plop along until the fates give her what she needed?

I crushed and mixed the herbs, sprinkled some water in the mortar, then grind some more, until a mushy paste had formed and my wrist ached furiously—which often didn’t take long these days. My body is breaking apart just as my life is getting more exciting. I chuckled at my own thoughts.

A man rushed inside with a tray of empty cups, and made his way straight to a door that seemed to lead to a cellar. He paused, glancing first at Merula, and then caught me hunched over the kitchen counter as well. “Uh, Master?” he began, clearly surprised at someone like me working the kitchens like some scullery maid.

I noticed he wore the white and gold colors of the Temple, seemed young enough to be a part of the footmen that surrounded Atia, and yet his frame was light, slim, and his face was bookish—if that is a term.

The stains on his robe indicated, that perhaps, he was a wine steward. Or the household Emptore, someone who managed the inventory and grocery needs. That would place him in a role that, while not having power over anyone, still controlled important resources and perhaps had good connections around the city. Managing the stores of the governor’s…or rather, Atia’s household, must come with a certain prestige after all. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was also related to the High Priestess.

“Maazin?” I asked him, not pausing my herb-grinding.

“Sorry?”

“Are you part of the Maazin family?”

“Son of Matanai,” the man nodded.

“Heh,” I snorted, pointing my dirty pestle in the man’s direction, “I knew it.”

“Master, I can get one of the girls to do that for you,” he began but I waved him off. He’d set the tray down; a metal sheet engraved with runes or glyphs of sort, carrying a pile of clay bowls and cups of wine. How wonderful that the nobles are enjoying this long night trapped inside.

“A testament to their optimism in the face of carnage,” I murmured to myself.

“W-what?” the young man asked, thinking my comment was addressed to him.

“What’s your name, son?” I snapped.

“Bizi.”

“Busy?”

“Beezee.”

I shook my head, my vision beginning to get blurry from the tiredness. “Well, get on with it then.”

Still a little confused, Bizi slowly filled the wash basin with the dirty dishes, though he watched me and Merula out of the corner of his eyes. The man was an interesting specimen. A noble by birth, and yet on the verge of the laborer class. Granted, a Temple servant was a respectable enough position for a noble youth, but this one was assigned to a particular household, and had to work the kitchens.

His wrists were too thin to suggest he did anything but hold trays and bottles of wine. Not a fighting man, then. His core was slight and thin like a scholar’s. But his speech was articulate, direct, and at the same time sociable. His position as a wine steward no doubt gave him access to a particular network across the town.

“Where’d you get the wine, Bizi?”

“The cellar, Master,” he replied.

“No, I mean, who do you get the wine from?”

“My father has a vineyard north of Emisa,” Bizi said, a little more confidence seeping into his voice. “But my Aunt can be picky, so I try to get my hands on some Greek wine from the Mattabol clan. They have vendors that get caravans almost every month from Antioch.”

“And those vineyards, I suppose, come from…”

“Anatol,” Bizi nodded, slipping the last of the cups into the wash basin. He tucked the tray under his arm and turned to me. “Did you want some, Master Cicero?”

“No, no! I gave up wine long ago.”

“You… gave up?” Bizi asked, as if mouthing words he didn’t fully understand.

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” I said. “Now, this Mattabol clan, are they the clan that our city master Cato is from?”

Bizi nodded. “And his brother Cataline. They control most of the senate and some other offices. They’re a rational bunch, not like the Persian Gaddibol.”

“And they’re Greek?” I asked.

Bizi scratched his chin. He was a man who liked to think on his words for accuracy. I liked that.

“They are Palmyrene,” Bizi began slowly, “Aramean to be clear. But it’s true, many of them have inter-married with Romans and Greek aristocrats for centuries, so I suppose they have full right to call themselves whatever they want.”

“What about your and Atia’s clan,” I asked, “are they not also—”

Bizi chuckled at that, “don’t let Matanai hear you finish that sentence, Master. The Maazin are sons and daughters of Aram through and through. Even Atia’s offspring with Gaius Julius would have been considered Aramean first.”

“Where is our dear governor anyways?” I asked, hoping my casual tone wasn’t too forced. But Bizi only shrugged.

“Last I heard, he was traveling to Constantinople,” he said. “He goes there often.”

“He’s been gone ever since I’ve arrived here,” I prodded some more. “Long trip.”

“Sometimes he’s gone for months,” Bizi explained. “Are you sure you don’t want me to pour you something, Master Cicero?”

“Not me, but if you have some wine left, some good wine, can you take it to the barracks?”

Bizi paused, his brow furrowing at the request. But thankfully, he didn’t ask any questions. “I’ll take a jug there.” He quickly disappeared into the cellar, and I found myself thinking on his position some more. These young men were quick to answer commands and even quicker in completing their task. An entire generation of completionists and driven aristocrats. The Temple guards I’d seen patrol around the palace, especially Captain Yaresh himself, would be doing other duties like water-carrying in the morning to the kitchens and other places of need, as well as delegating messengers from his retinue, assigning them the day’s tasks for their noble patrons like Atia.

But what separated them from laborers and slaves? It had to be their Temple association and good name. Coming from families like the Maazin ensured they weren’t stuck to this life, but that this was just a stepping stone for young aristocrats to serve each other and network. Yes, that must be it.

The labor class and slaves had no choice but to live a life as someone’s litter carrier. The young nobles, while employed in serving duties, were essentially just doing this as a checkmark on their list of tasks to achieve more prestige. The noble youth in Rome didn’t partake in such extra-curricular activities—something that would put them in the same category as an ordinary laborer—but they did often claim to be champions of the Plebs. That wasn’t the same, though, was it?

“What is that?” Merula said, and I nearly jumped out of my robes. I’d forgotten the girl was still around.

She pointed to the pestle in my hand, covered in grinded mint, and I realized I was holding it aloft, my arms crossed in thought. Mint leaves were scattered on the stone floor from my absent-mindedness. Ugh.

“It’s a pestle,” I replied, “you’re supposed to use it for… grinding I suppose.” Was there any other use for a pestle? As a weapon, perhaps. “I seem to be a poor pestle-man though.”

The servant girl reached out her hand, wiggling her fingers towards it. She would do that sometimes; rely on her hand signals to aid her communication. Anyone else might wonder for her state of mind, or her age, but there was a reason she was this way, and it wasn’t necessarily something that was wrong. My peers, biographers and marsupial clerks of Rome, often labeled any out of the ordinary human traits as underdeveloped—or Greek—but the more I’d interacted with the people on the fringes of society, the more I’d found flowers of different kind and colors that made up our species.

I finally handed the pestle to the girl, and by Jupiter, was it a mistake. Merula rushed to grab a bowl from the washbasin, placed it on her head, and skipped back to me as she waved the dirty pestle in the air. She let out a growl and smacked the side of my leg.

“Merula! You insane child,” I snapped, “give me that.” She dodged my feeble attempts to take her culinary war-club and ran around the boiling pot, the make-shift helmet wobbling on her head. We circled the stew once, twice, and then I collapsed in a coughing fit. My ankle ached at the sharp turns. “Just you wait, just you…” I let out a burp that emptied my lungs, which only made the girl giggle and try to get in close for another strike.

“Don’t you dare,” I said, pointing my finger in her face. “You want me to call Castor?”

The name immediately felled her smile, caused a flash of fear in her eyes, and I instantly regretted the threat. “Just give me the pestle,” I continued, but the girl turned on her heels and ran out of the kitchen.

I hoped she ran back to the barracks and didn’t create too much of a fuss. The Temple guards were on edge, and I didn’t trust them to be gentle with her.