Free Tales of Ancient Rome by S. J. A. Turney Page A

to be somewhat different. This was what Decebalus’ defiance had brought his people: small groups of fugitives fleeing through fields and hiding in farms. The conquest was truly over.
    With a sigh, he drew his knife.
    Perhaps thirty minutes later, Anakreon strode into open grassland from the cornfield. Covered in blood, one of his arms hung limp at his side and his horse was missing, but he bore a wide grin.
    “ Wondered if you were alright, sir? You never made it back to the village.”
    He wandered across to his commander, who was seated on a rock by the water, his cloak bundled up to create a bag next to him. The big Greek frowned as he took in the blood-soaked grass and the headless body.
    “ Do tell.”
    Wearily, Maximus lifted the heavy makeshift bag and passed it over. The bottom was black and glistening wet; grisly trophy that would end a war. A prize beyond imagining for a common soldier.
    “ I think Trajan is going to be happy with us, Anakreon.”
     
    With a pinch of salt
     
    The corridor was quiet and dark as Melicos pounded along it, his sandals flapping on the decorative marble floor, his way lit only by small pottery oil lamps flickering on ledges placed at regular intervals. His hand tilted expertly first one way and then the other with practiced ease, balancing the elegant silver platter with its succulent dish as he raced around corners, his expensive, sauce-spattered tunic wafting around him.
    It was the lot of a slave, not a freedman, to spend his time running to keep his master happy but Melicos felt no shame at such behaviour. He had received his manumission some ten years ago at the behest of the glorious emperor Claudius Caesar and had remained in his former slave position gratefully, receiving a considerable wage, a small apartment of his own and a number of other benefits, not the least of which was living and working in the great Palatine complex.
    The former slave had impressed the deformed, barely-audible and yet incredibly astute and careful Emperor from the very beginning with his innovative and masterful ability with food. Even as a slave he had gone from being a simple cook among a dozen others to running the kitchen in those first couple of years. Since his manumission and being given free rein to hire his own staff, however, his kitchen had become famous: the envy of Rome’s noble classes. Invitations to the emperor’s parties were sought after by the greatest generals and richest patricians. All for Melicos’ simple expertise with sauces and combinations.
    Carefully juggling the platter, spinning it expertly with his little finger to keep it balanced, Melicos bellowed an order as he ran and the door at the end of the corridor swung open as he neared it, granting access to the Imperial apartments.
    On he ran, into the decorative entrance hall with its frescos of elegant parkland, lakes and bridges, swans and geese, colonnaded villas and trees. Deftly, he jumped a small table. He could have navigated the route from the kitchen to Claudius’ triclinium in the pitch darkness without spilling a drop, he’d done it so many times.
    The smell of Melicos’ signature dish wafted after him as he ran.
    His sauce cooks were all experts in their field. Pratucus had been chief chef to the governor of Narbonensis before his fame spread and Melicos sent him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Banathes was a Syrian who had risen to fame with his own chain of thermopolia in Emesa. He was often a little heavy on the spices, but was learning to temper his work for the more jaded palate of Rome. Latiades was a find: a Greek who could work wonders with mulsum.
    It had been something of a wrench letting go of control over the sauces, but Melicos simply didn’t have time these days to work in as much detail as he used to, having to monitor the work of three dozen kitchen staff in an almost constant flurry. At least they were the three best sauce cooks to be found in the entire Empire.
    Ha!
    He laughed