gold. He bade them try it. Its style was entirely new and novel to Rome. A portion was cut and handed to Sejanus; after him the others were served. Its delicious and novel flavour was proved by the enraptured expressions of each feaster as he tasted the portion set before him. It had only one fault, as Pansa said, with a sigh – there was not enough of it. Zoilus was left to the last, and the only remaining piece on the dish was placed before him. Livid and trembling with passion he motioned it away, muttering something about his inability to digest it. Apicius, therefore, with mock regret, beckoned the slave to transfer it to himself.
‘Good!’ said he, when he had finished it, speaking to his steward, whose glance hung upon him. ‘Tell Silo, Hippias, and Macer, that they have surpassed themselves. Their master is well pleased with them – with you all. He will not forget.’
It is to be regretted that history has preserved only the tradition of this remarkable production of Apicius’ kitchen, the fame of which subsequently filled aristocratic circles. Further than relating that the foundation of the dish was the carcase of a small unknown animal, captured in the limits of the empire, and brought home by a recently arrived ship, all details are wanting.
Gradually, after this interesting incident, the guests, languidly, fell more at their ease on their cushions, with laden stomachs and appeased appetites. Beyond nibbling furtively at sweet dainties and fruits, there was only inclination left to sip at the precious wine, and to employ their tongues and laugh at each other’s wit. But from this stage Apicius himself relapsed once more into his former fit of silent, unconscious abstraction. The minutes gathered into hours, and chatter and jest flew uninterruptedly around. Only at times the host was roused by the jesting challenges of his guests, rallying him on the subject of his absorbed reflections. Among the numerous glorious entertainments of Apicius this, the guests admitted to each other in many an aside, was the most perfect Rome had yet known. And yet, instead of being blithe and jocund with success, the hospitable entertainer reclined with melancholy, fixed eyes – opening his lips only to sip his wine from time to time. This could not fail to have an effect eventually, for what ought to have been the inspiration of their conviviality was cold, fireless, and mute. They struggled on for some time, but, at length, their cheerfulness sank beneath the chilling influence of those fixed, sad, downcast eyes and heedless ears. A social meeting largely takes its tone from its leader, and when the conversation became slower and more fitful, Afer exchanged glances with Sejanus and Flaccus with Charinus. Meaning looks went round from each to each to the seemingly unconscious Apicius, and from Apicius back to each other. Zoilus had no love or good-feeling to detain him. More or less discomfited and snubbed, he waited no longer, kicking against the pricks, but seized the opportunity and began to rise, briefly hinting that his absence was necessary.
‘Stay!’ said Apicius, suddenly starting, as if from a dream, at hearing these words spoken in his ear. ‘Stay yet for a few moments, Zoilus. I – I implore your pardon, friends, for I see I have fallen a prey to my reflections and forgotten you. It was behaviour unworthy even of a barbarian – I pray you give me your indulgence!’
‘Nay, noble Apicius, every one is liable to be overridden by his thoughts,’ said Sejanus.
‘True, and I will forthwith give you the clue to mine,’ was the reply.
‘Ha! we will, therefore, begin again,’ quoth Pansa, in thick tones, holding up his empty goblet for his slave to refill.
They all laughed, and then bent their eyes on the face of Apicius with renewed interest.
‘Nothing, dear friends, but the most sorrowful thoughts could have led me to exhibit such conduct toward you,’ said their host. ‘It has been my greatest ambition – ever my pride and pleasure to see my friends happy around my table.’
‘Dear Apicius, you have ever succeeded, and not the least this day,’ said Martialis gently.
A murmur of approval ran round the couches.
‘You do me honour,’ resumed Apicius; ‘you have been good friends and companions hitherto, and I have done, humbly, my best to return your love. Be patient, I will not detain you long; and especially as you will never again recline round this table at my request. I am grieved to say it,’ continued he, after allowing the expressions of startled surprise to pass, ‘but I am resolved to change my condition, and Rome will know me no more.’
Ill-concealed joy lighted up the vulgar face of Zoilus, but the visages of Torquatus, Flaccus, and Pansa were blank and thunderstruck at this unlooked-for announcement.
‘Say not so, Apicius!’ quoth Martialis, turning his prematurely worn, but noble face toward his host, ‘you rend our hearts.’
Apicius, with a fond look, laid his hand gently on the speaker’s shoulder, but did not speak.
‘This is rank treason that cannot pass,’ said Sejanus jestingly. ‘Rome cannot spare thee, noble Apicius – thou shalt not even leave thy house – I shall send a guard of my Pretorians, who shall block thee in.’
A faint smile rested on the lips of Apicius at this conceit.
‘We shall see how that plan will act, Prefect,’ said he. ‘Send thy Pretorians – a whole cohort – only you must be quick.’
Torquatus sat dumb and forgot his jibes; the remainder listened for what was to follow.
‘It is true, my friends, I am about to quit the pleasures, the bustle, the virtues and vices of our beloved city of the hills. I am eager for perfect serenity, far from the struggling crowd, and I go shortly to see it.’
‘Whither? We will seek you out – I, at least,’ interrupted the voice of Martialis next to him.
‘Thou shalt learn ere very long, my Caius. Which among you does not, at certain times, if not constantly, wish for the tranquillity of the rustic, whose music is the whisper of the groves, the rippling of the stream, and the notes of the birds? Eating simply, sleeping soundly, rising cheerfully. Contented with what the gods have given him – the summer sun, the pure air, the green pastures, sweet water and the vine-clad slope; a heart unvexed by ambitions, envyings, ingratitudes. When I see him wander, wonderingly, through the streets, I envy him his brown cheek, his clear skin, his cheerful simplicity, his vigorous body which cleaves the torrent of pallid citizens. He seems to breathe the odour of the quiet groves and dewy grass. I am sick at heart and weary, friends. I loathe the sight of my once loved city of the hills – the marble, the stone, the thronging people. Peace! Peace! That song of Horace haunts me. Hear it, although you know it well – it will help you to divine my spirit in a little degree.’ He then recited the beautiful song of Horace, the sixteenth of his second book, of which we offer the following translation, inadequate as it is: —
‘Whosoever tempest-tossed
Upon the wide Aegean waters,
Prays the gods for peace and rest,
When darkling the moon is hid
Amid the murky clouds,
And guiding stars shine not
To cheer the sailor’s breast.
‘War-torn Thrace cries Peace!
And Peace! the quivered Median bold:
But, Grosphus, it is neither bought
With purple, gems, nor gold.
For neither riches
Nor the lictor of a consul’s nod,
Can drive the troubles of a mind aloof,
Nor flout the cares which flit
About a gilded roof.
‘With him who lives with little
Life goes well;
Whose father’s cup
Shines bright upon a simple board:
Whose slumbers light
Are never harmed by fear, nor sudden fright,
Which tells of hidden hoard.
‘Why strain ourselves to gain so much
In