A Taste of Death is a historical fiction adaptation of Emperor Claudius Caesar’s sudden death, and Emperor Nero’s rise to power by his influential mother and her famous cooking catastrophes.
A Taste of Death
“Did you love him?”
“Love is a unique and rare phenomenon, son.”
“But did you love him?”
She thought long and hard, the unwashed mushrooms bruising in the passing minutes. “I loved what he could give us. Give you.” She tossed the delicate bulbs of fungi in a ceramic sink, the water nipping her knuckles cold. “Remember that someday. Will you, my dear Lucius?”
“It’s Nero, mater. That’s what the world calls me.”
“What he called you. But you’ll always be my Lucius…Now come help. How else are you to learn the recipe without a hand in it?”
Lucius, better known as Nero, was tall with an awkwardly crooked chin and a mess of hair and expression, virtues of a century’s worth of incestuous marriage. He had been crowned as Emperor only last week, the death of his stepfather, Claudius, an utter mystification to Rome. But he was the rightful heir, as the latest testimony declared, and he’d have his throne either way. His mother would see to it.
But Agrippina had a talent that exceeded a murderous hand and the desire for ultimate power. A talent praised throughout Rome and even the palace corridors. A talent many claimed they could not live without had they only known her cooking.
Bread, cakes, and all the in-between: The domestic life of a Roman woman provided ample time to study the recipes of ancient masters and the skills necessary for laborious meals. Recipes such as Apicus’ and even those gathered on foreign trips to the Chinese Dynasties and beyond. But there was one meal in particular that Claudius favored. A favorite amongst her once heiring brother, Caligula, too.
“Be gentle with them, Lucius. Scrub them too hard, and the skin will rip.”
“But I can’t tell where dirt begins, and the natural coloration ends.”
“Then let the water do its work if your eyes can’t…I’ll be back. We’ll need garum and some oil. Just toss them in a towel when they are clean.”
“But Mater! Mater!”
He is a grown boy, Agrippina. He is an Emperor. If he can’t wash the lifeless dung of the ground, then how’ll he be expected to rule by the thousands? Leave him. It’s only a minute.
As she did. The palace kitchen, while not as magnificent and glorious as the draperies and oak tables in the dining room or as luxuriant as the plebeians wish to think, it was still quite large. Large enough to plot the pantry down the hall, a curtain is its only door, and a rack of shelves is within a dark closet. The wood panels were lined so tight with bottles and jars, and all one heard was the innocent clatter of glass.
“Garum and olive oil. Siblings in the world of any great cook.” She pulled a little jar toward the belly of her skirt, an array of utensils and ingredients now spread along the counter as if roasted garlic on a cracker. A vicious aroma of vinegar sprung from the uncapped jar, a deep red paste lining its interior. “And vincotto’s their cousin.”
He smiled, his lips that of his father, Domitius. But the rest of his face belonged to her. Malice and all.
“Are those pieces big enough? Like that?” Agrippina leaned over his cutting tray, his hands holding the little fungal sprigs as if they’d feed on him next.
“A bit thicker. Fetch three or four slices from them each. Remember, they’ll shrink with the heat.”
She set a skillet with oil and watched as it began to dance in the pan, sparkling like that of a dribbling fountain or a heavy rain against a puddle. Lucius flooded the stovetop with all his imperfect mushroom pieces, the fleshy white on the inside and orange on the rims. They sizzled as the oil gossiped, shrinking in the cruelty of their words.
She watched Agrippina as Lucius handled the skillet. Shuffling it over the flame as if he’d done it a thousand times before. Yet, it had little to do with the mushrooms but the fire. His fascination for heat glowed in the reflection of his eyes. “Amazing, isn’t it? How quick fire can consume.” It was hard to pull his attention away, the crackling oil a subordinate thought even as it scorched his forearm.
“Now, Lucius, near close. This part is essential.” She scooped a heap of the red vincotto, a thick paste made from the must of wine, and unleashed the wretched swelter of garum.
“Ugh, it smells like the harbor.” His face soured. “That’s putrid, mater.”
“Fish, dear. How else do you think we make meals so tasty?” She flung the spoon of vincotto into the skillet and held her breath as the chunky garum, or fish sauce, slobbered into the mess of shriveling mushrooms. A pinch of coriander here and some pepper there, the oil dark, and the mushrooms swirling in the midst like slugs at the bottom of the lake. A thousand smells perfumed the air, thick as the steam rolling off the pan.
“Now, darling, there is only one thing more important than taste in the world of cooking.”
He clung to her every word, aspiration fiddling on his tongue. “And?”
She smiled and plucked a leafy stem from the tips of a nearby fennel bulb and delicately placed it in the midst of the puny pile of wilted mushrooms and broth. “Presentation, dear.” She pushed the shallow bowl before him. “Your stepfather’s old favorite. Go on.”
“And the mushrooms? They are caesareas?”
“Amanita, yes.”
“Not caesareas?” For there were two kinds. That of the market and that of the dark forest.
“Dear Lucius, I’m afraid my stock of phalloides has disappeared in the past week. Now go on, enjoy it as Claudius once had, but with the kiss of tomorrow.”
Finis.