Kraken Bake

Kraken Bake

by Karen Dudley

Kraken Bake

copyright © Karen Dudley 2014

Published by Ravenstone

an imprint of Turnstone Press

Artspace Building

206-100 Arthur Street

Winnipeg, MB

R3B 1H3 Canada

www.RavenstoneBooks.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or ­transmitted in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or ­mechanical—without the prior ­written permission of the ­publisher. Any request to photocopy any part of this book shall be directed in writing to Access Copyright, Toronto.

Turnstone Press gratefully acknowledges the assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Manitoba Arts Council, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, and the Province of Manitoba through the Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Book Publisher ­Marketing Assistance Program.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Printed and bound in Canada by Friesens for Turnstone Press.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Dudley, Karen, author

Kraken bake / by Karen Dudley.

(An epikurean epic)

ISBN 978-0-88801-466-5 (pbk)

I. Title.

PS8557.U279K73 2014 C813’.54 C2014-901388-4

Come, Hermogenes! I am feeling remarkably optimistic today. After all, the early bird gets the worm."

Not so lucky for the worm though, is it? My disciple yawned as he stumbled behind me, his curly hair tousled and his chiton askew.

Ah, but we are the birds in this scenario, I reminded him. Early and swift—at least we would be if you would pick up your feet. Come, come!

Hermogenes mumbled something under his breath, though he did endeavour to increase his pace.

We had left the house early, even before rosy-fingered Eos, goddess of the dawn, had begun to lighten the sky. My goal in doing so was to procure not a lowly worm, but some form of fresh fish at the market—an item which these days was about as rare as a three-tentacled squid. It was a chilly morning, the air holding a hint of the winter damp to come, but the newly risen sun was burning off the fog, promising at least a sunny day, if not a particularly warm one.

I strode briskly down the Panathenaic Way, Athens’s main artery, with Hermogenes lagging behind me. Few were on the road at this hour, so we swept easily past the Painted Stoa (where, later in the day, philosophers would gather to pontificate), and past the Altar to the Twelve Gods (which stood at the entrance to the Agora and from which all distances in the civilized world were measured), before plunging into the labyrinthine streets and alleys that made up the market proper.

The sounds of the Agora were muted as shopkeepers went about their preparations for the day. People were speaking in lowered tones, the way they do before the sun is high. A donkey bell clanged mournfully. Off to my right, there was a sudden shout of laughter, quickly smothered.

The haze of cook smoke mingled with the dissipating fog, bringing with it the smell of spiced sausages. Hermogenes’s nose began to twitch at the tantalizing aroma, but just as he opened his mouth (probably to importune me for a breakfast sausage or two), the bell sounded the opening of the market.

With this herald came the first of the merchants crying their wares.

"Krayken! Fresh today!"

"Get your krayken here!"

"Kebobs! Krayken kebobs! Grilled while you wait! Hot and tasty krayken kebobs!"

With each shout, my sunny mood darkened.

"Krayken! one overly enthusiastic fishmonger bawled, jumping in our path and shoving a platter of his odiferous wares under our noses. All cuts! From mantle to tentacle tips! Some krayken for you, my friend? Eh? Best quality!"

I glowered at the man’s pronunciation of the word and waved him off with a snap of my wrist. Gesturing Hermogenes onwards, I stalked past the first of the fish sellers’ shops.

"Krayken, krayken, and more sodding krayken," Hermogenes grunted sourly as he perused the stalls.

That was too much! It was one thing to hear the word coming from fishmongers. Quite another to hear it from the lips of my own disciple.

Thoroughly exasperated, I stopped and turned to confront him. It’s kraken, I corrected sharply.

Beg your pardon, Chef. I forgot.

Indeed. Perhaps it would be easier if you remembered that it rhymes with smackin’. I raised one eyebrow and flexed my hand.

Hermogenes gave me a crooked grin and ducked his head in a more sincere apology. Sorry, Chef. I’ll try to remember for next time.

See that you do, I told him testily, pulling my cloak more tightly around me.

In fact, most of Athens referred to the creature in the same way, incorrectly pronouncing it Kray-ken, to rhyme with bacon. That they did so because of my archrival—a jumped-up taverna cook from Sicily—went a long way to explaining my implacable intolerance of the mistake.

A week or two after kraken had made its first appearance on the market, Mithaecus the Sicilian had devised what he’d called a secret blend of spices which he used to coat the kraken meat before bunging the lot into a hot oven to bake. The so-called Kraken Bake coating was more salt and pepper and stale barley bread crumbs than anything else, but the Athenians gobbled it up like it was ambrosia, and virtually overnight everybody started saying krayken rather than kraken.

To make things worse, word had gone around that Kraken Bake was so easy to prepare, even the simplest house slave could manage it (which was unsurprising given the quality of The Sicilian’s culinary talents). Gossip had it that Mithaecus was raking in a fortune by selling packets of the coating at hugely inflated prices.

Now that was more than I could stomach.

The Sicilian had been the green mould on my cheese since I’d first landed in Athens. From the beginning, he had slandered me, ridiculed my cooking, and tried to bribe food sellers to offer me inferior goods. Normally, such behaviour would hardly have been enough to inconvenience me. I was, after all, a celebrity chef. At my level, one could expect a certain degree of envy from those less gifted. But in the past summer, Mithaecus had taken his petty rivalry to new depths, and as a result of his jealous machinations, I had lost all my contracts during the city’s most important festival, my friends’ livelihoods had suffered much the same fate, and a ruthless business associate had beaten up my fifteen-year-old disciple so badly that the scars were still visible on his face. My career as a chef had come dangerously close to ending then and there. Had it not been for the decisive resolution of certain unfortunate events, followed by the concerted efforts of friends both high and low, I would have found myself run out of town, ending my days slinging stew in Corinth or baking peasant loaves in one of the colonies.

No, I did not care for The Sicilian, nor he for me—particularly after I had (most uncharacteristically) lost my temper and punched him in the face, flattening his noble Grecian nose into something resembling an ill-risen barley roll. It had been a small act of revenge—one that did not even begin to pay him back for his malicious actions—but since then, although we studiously avoided each other, our rivalry had escalated to new and lofty heights. Matters between us were far from resolved, and every utterance of the word krayken served as a pointed reminder to me of our unfinished business.

Scant weeks before, few in Athens had even heard the word kraken, let alone had the opportunity to mispronounce it. It was a word from the distant past, something more tall tale than truth.

Kraken were monsters of the sea. Enormous, multi-tentacled, terrifying creatures, they formed the base of Poseidon’s muscle whenever he took it into his head to release a spot of terror on an offending kingdom. The last time he’d sent one out had been when the ancient land of Troy had refused to pay the god for building their city’s walls. Granted, he had been forced into the labour as punishment for revolting against Zeus, but it had been unwise of the Trojan king to refuse to cough up his wages. It was the legendary Herakles who had eventually taken out that beast.

Nobody had any particulars about why a kraken had been released this time around. All that was known was that this new kraken had been slain by a young fellow named Perseus, and although his name was now on every tongue, nobody in Athens had ever heard of him before. Not until a supply ship had come sailing up to the docks of Piraeus, its holds bulging with kraken meat.

According to the sailors from this first ship, Perseus hailed from some backwater village in the colonies, and he had in his possession any number of wondrous items. Dockside gossip was rampant.

Wotcha know, ’e’s got a magic sword …

An’ sandals wif wings on ’em …

An’ an invisible ’elmet!

Invisible? ’Ow d’you know it’s invisible if you can’t see it?

Woll … I know ’e’s got a magic sword. I ’eard about it from a sailor what seen it hisself. Used it to off th’ kraken, din’t ’e?

Despite the conflicting reports regarding his magical accoutrements, all of Athens agreed that this Perseus had to be a hero of most impressive stature, as even the legendary Theseus would have been daunted by a calamari writ so large. How a mere mortal had managed to dispatch the creature was the subject of much speculation in the Agora. But dispatch it he certainly had, for the fish sellers’ stalls groaned under the weight of it, and soon Athenians were flocking to the marketplace to line up for the rare treat. For the next few days, the blue-tinged cooking smoke that customarily hung over the city bore a distinctly fishy odour. Kraken steaks were best when grilled on a brazier.

More details came with a second heavily-laden supply ship.

I ’eard tell ’e used ’is magic sword to kill Medusa, and then it were Medusa’s severed ’ead ’e used to kill th’ kraken …

Medusa! One o’ them Gorgones sisters? Wif all them snakes fer ’air?

Wot? That one what’ll turn you to stone if you so much as look at ’er?

The very one!

But if ’e used ’er ’ead, why din’t th’ kraken get turn’t to stone, then?

Dunno, do I?

I ’eard maybe it was on account of it bein’ supernacheral and all. Great tentacled bastard just up and died instead o’ gettin’ petreefied.

Kraken kebobs became all the rage.

And there was still more kraken to come. It seemed the usual flesh-eating scavengers of the sea did not much care for kraken. Neither did the other benthic denizens, for fishermen throughout the Aegean complained bitterly of their poor catches, blaming it on the lingering presence of the dead sea monster. The beast had clearly been far larger than anybody had guessed, and kraken meat, it appeared, did not rot. Large pots of tentacle stew simmered in kitchens throughout the city.

A third supply ship brought with it, in addition to more kraken, the why of it all. According to this ship’s captain, the sea monster had been terrorizing the far-off kingdom of Aethiopia, whose queen had boasted that her daughter, Andromeda, was more beautiful than the Nereides. The Nereides were water nymphs, the good-time girls of Poseidon’s court, and he was inordinately fond of them. Queen Kassiopeia really ought to have known better than to offend Poseidon—indeed, I could have given her an earful on the consequences of doing so if she’d bothered to ask. But the insult was issued, and a much angered Poseidon released his oversized pet on the kingdom.

Would’a meant the end of Aethiopia, that’s for sure, the captain told his rapt audience, which that day included Hermogenes and me. He paused and drained his wine cup. The taverna owner was quick to refill it. But then the oracle of Ammon came a’calling, the captain continued after taking another healthy drink and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Tipped off the king and queen regarding a certain loophole in the works. Told ’em the land could be saved, if they offered up their own daughter to the kraken … he paused and lowered his voice, for its tea.

The crowd gasped in horror, but I was less shocked than most by the revelation. After all, being served for dinner wasn’t exactly a new concept for me.

Suffice it to say that Andromeda’s parents proved about as loving as my own father had been. And it was while she awaited her gruesome fate, chained to a rock by the sea and generously sprinkled with seasoning, that our man Perseus just happened to pass by, spied the girl and fell instantly in love with her. All this just as the many-tentacled kraken arrived on the scene in search of its snack. The quick-thinking hero, who had the Gorgon’s head handily stashed in a pouch at his side, pulled out the vile thing and waved it at the oncoming sea monster, killing the beast, saving both girl and kingdom, and thereby earning the undying gratitude of her not-so-loving-but-still-very-wealthy parents.

Some people have all the luck.

After that, the tales about Perseus got more fantastical with each passing day.

’E’s another one of Zeus’s brats, yeah? They say ’is mum’s quite a looker …

I ’eard Father Zeus came to ’er disguised as a golden shower, ’e did …

An’ ’e’s got a flyin’ ’orse …

Bollocks! Never ’eard of no flyin’ ’orse …

It’s true! I ’eard it meself from a sailor who knew a bloke what saw it …

I still say it’s bollocks!

By the time a fourth ship arrived in Athens, sales of kraken had begun to fall off rather noticeably. I learned quickly to get to the market by first light, as all available fish—and there weren’t many of these—were snapped up by early shoppers longing for the taste of something other than the ubiquitous kraken. Despite the fact that the creature had been dispatched in such a distant locale, ocean currents had steadily steered its remains towards Athens, hence the dearth of any other fish in the Agora. I strongly suspected the hand of Poseidon at work in this. He had never quite forgiven the city for snubbing him and selecting Athena as its patron god, and, as Dionysus had once observed, Poseidon could be a right vengeful bastard.

The entire Peloponnesus had been hit hard too, according to the ship’s captain. This news gave Athenians some smug satisfaction—at least they weren’t the only ones suffering—until the captain mentioned that the Spartans were treating it as a sort of challenge. For weeks now, they had been eating nothing but kraken, believing that doing so would confer upon them all the might of the slain beast. At this news, Athenians once again stepped up to their dinner plates. After all, if their archrivals the Spartans could eat nothing but kraken, so could the Athenians, though they would do so with the style and verve for which they were so justly famous. Overnight, new recipes and methods of preparing kraken began circulating around the Agora.

A fifth supply ship arrived.

Even with the new recipes, Athenians soon wearied of the unending kraken. And by the time a sixth and seventh supply ship unloaded their unwelcome cargos, people had already started turning to anything else that was edible for relief. Even the lowly sprat—long considered a peasant food—saw a surge in popularity among those who had never before allowed such a humble fish to pass their lips. And Hermogenes reported seeing two men actually come to blows over an anglerfish. It was undergrown, not terribly fresh, and it was missing most of its tail, which is the only part of that particular fish worth consuming. Athenians, it seemed, were getting desperate.

Still feeling hopeful, Hermogenes and I now continued past the fish sellers’ stalls, stopping only when we reached Krysippos’s little shop. I had always found Krysippos to be one of my more reliable vendors of seafood, providing me with the highest quality fish or eels at consistently reasonable prices (well, they were reasonable after some prolonged haggling). In the years I had lived in Athens, he had rarely failed to meet my demands, or my exacting standards. But today the pale fish seller slouched dispiritedly behind an untouched display of kraken, his normally crisp blue-and-white-striped awnings drooping in the dampness. Frowning, I scanned his wares for something—anything—other than kraken. A futile effort. It was clear from his demeanour he had nothing else to offer.

"Some krayken for you, my cook friend?" he asked without much enthusiasm.

I pursed my lips at his pronunciation and sighed inwardly.

I have fine steaks, and stewing meat, and even some tentacle tips today! Krysippos said, gesturing to the silvery mounds of blue-tinged kraken meat. He’d begun to perk up the longer I stood there, his pale hands rubbing against each other, his pallid face lighting with hope.

All very fresh, he assured me, as if kraken was ever not fresh. Verrrrry tasty! He smacked his lips noisily.

I looked again at his displays. For the wealthy shopper, there were platters of thick cut steaks and delicate, thinly sliced fillets pounded flat for frying. Bowls of tentacles—considered a delicacy among the cognoscenti—glistened in the early-morning sun, their suckers a darker shade of blue than the meat. For less refined palates there were strips of the rubbery fin, and chunks of meat, likely from the mantle, which were said to make an exceedingly flavourful stew if simmered long enough.

Krysippos was still extolling the virtues of his merchandise. Moved by the note of desperation in his voice, I opened my mouth to ask for a couple of steaks. Kraken was the last thing I wanted, but Krysippos had always been good about selling quality products to me and I felt sorry for his lack of custom.

I can even throw in some Kraken Bake, eh? Krysippos dropped his voice conspiratorially. It cooks up like that! He snapped his fingers. No fuss, no bother, and— he lowered his voice even further, "—no problems! Eh? What do you say? I can sell it to you cheaper than Kleisthenes, that miserable old fart-sucker!"

I scowled, furious now, as well as insulted. I don’t use Kraken Bake, I enunciated coldly. "And no, thank you. I don’t want any kraken. I emphasized the correct pronunciation of the word. Hermogenes! Come!" I stalked away, my back rigid, my face dark with anger.

As soon as we’d moved out of earshot, I stepped close to one of the plane trees that lined the market and turned on my disciple.

What have you been saying? I hissed, grabbing the back of his neck.

He squeaked and tried to shake his head. Nothing, Chef! I haven’t said a word! Honest!

Then how did Krysippos know? Who told him? Was it you? I know how much you like to gossip! I punctuated each question with an angry shake.

It weren’t me, Hermogenes cried. I wouldn’t do that, Chef! I wouldn’t! Not to you!

I paused. Hermogenes had flushed with self-righteous indignation, the scars on his right cheek dark against his skin. At the sight of those scars, my fury suddenly bled away. I released my grip on him.

"I’m your disciple, Chef, Hermogenes said earnestly. I would never say anything about … that."

I let out my breath in a long sigh and patted his shoulder in apology. I know, I told him. I know.

I think it’s just gotten ’round. I mean, you’re the only chef not serving kraken at the symposions. People are bound to talk, aren’t they?

I slumped against the tree. Not that there have been many symposion feasts to prepare. I sighed, disheartened.

There’ve been enough, my disciple said bracingly. Easy for him to say, he wasn’t trying to save money for his own house. And you’ll see. There’ll be more. Your roast lamb’s a right treat, it is.

I looked down at my sandals and scowled. My roast lamb had almost been my downfall thanks to the pox-ridden Sicilian.

And what about Anacreon’s job, yeah? That’s only a few days from now. All his rich mates’ll be there, and they’ll all be—

Expecting some stunningly original—not to mention succulent—kraken dish.

Hermogenes hesitated. Well … you’ll just give ’em something better, won’t you? Besides, everyone’s sick to death of sodding kraken. You know they are! They’ll be over the bloody moon to have a change of pace. You mark my words, Chef, we’ll be seeing more contracts out of that one.

He nodded once to emphasize his point before stroking his newly sprouted beard in what he clearly believed was a wise and sage manner. The beard (if a few hairs could actually be referred to as such) was a wispy, sparse sort of thing, but Hermogenes was inordinately proud of it. He had even taken to referring to it in the third person, almost as if it were a separate entity.

His encouragement cheered me. I pushed myself off the tree and allowed Hermogenes to adjust my cloak.

Of course, if you’d just let me smarten you up a bit … he began, tugging at the folds of my himation.

No, Hermogenes. I held up my hand. We’ve been through this before. I am not letting you tart me up like some flute girl.

It’s not about looking like a flute girl, Chef! It’s about establishing your style.

I’m a chef. I don’t need a style. My cooking is stylish.

But you aren’t, are you? he said, throwing caution to the wind. I’m sorry, but you need … a brand.

A brand, I said flatly.

To identify you! It’s like when people see a bloke in a piss-coloured chiton and they know right off it’s Mithaecus.

If you think I want to be compared to Mithaecus—

There’s no comparing you to that wanker! Hermogenes interrupted hotly. But he’s got a brand, hasn’t he? Something that people recognize.

"I am not wearing a yellow chiton—"

But, Chef—

Enough! I cut him off with a sharp gesture. I refuse to discuss this any further. Come, obviously there are no fish to be had today, so all we can do is hope something comes in for Anacreon’s symposion—and for all those future contracts you say will arise from that. I didn’t necessarily believe in the rosy future my disciple was painting. Still, I would throw myself on a red-hot brazier before I ever conceded the ground to Mithaecus. In the meantime, we’re going to need some cheese and lentils for our dinner tonight.

The morning shoppers were out in force now. I made a survey of the stalls of the other fish vendors, but, like Krysippos, they had nothing to offer but the same wide platters of silvery blue meat, the same deep bowls of plump tentacles. The sellers themselves all bore the same hopeless expressions on their faces as they wiped already spotless counters and ­rearranged already neatly piled meat. Even the vile Kraken Bake, it appeared, was no longer enough to entice Athenians to eat more of the stuff.

I inserted myself into the press, not even bothering to glance back at Hermogenes. I knew what I’d see—my disciple and former slave scuffing his feet glumly, fingering his nascent beard and pulling a face at the thought of choking down yet another piece of cheese or another spoonful of lentils.

I sympathized with the sentiment. Lately, at odd times of the day, I’d found myself fantasizing about a plate of scallops lightly poached in wine and herbs, or a thick-cut tuna steak, crisp and sizzling on the outside, the pink flesh tender and flaky on the inside, or perhaps a cuttlefish stewed in its own ink, the sauce dark and smoky rich and …

The beard could murder a fish right about now, Hermogenes groaned.

I roused from my momentary reverie.

Indeed, I said in a brisk tone. But it seems ‘the beard’—not to mention the rest of the city—is not yet done with the kraken.

I’d say the ruddy kraken’s not done with us. Hermogenes pulled a sour face. Better to have just let it have a go at Aethiopia, if you ask me. I mean, what did those chuffing buggers ever do for us anyways?

He ducked away from my automatic slap, though the reprimand was half-hearted and Hermogenes knew it. My disciple was only saying what most Athenians were already thinking.

Here. I paused and counted out a few coins into his palm. Go and buy the lentils. I’ll see what the cheese sellers have today. I’ll meet you … I paused.

Back at The Herms? my disciple suggested quickly, naming an area in the northwest corner of the Agora.

I gave him a steady stare.

In actual fact, there were Herms all over Athens. They marked roads, crossroads, and entrances, each of the rectangular columns possessing an erect phallus halfway up and the head of a smirking Hermes perched on top. The corner known as The Herms was simply where an inordinate number of these statues had been situated. They marked the entrance to the Agora proper, and many people touched them in passing for luck. The Herms were also where, not coincidentally, the horse trainers often passed at this time of the day.

Fine, I relented with a long-suffering sigh. But don’t spend too much time ogling the horses. And mind you get the lentils uncooked this time!

No worries, Chef. Hermogenes grinned crookedly at me. Then he popped the coins in his mouth and scampered off, darting between larger, more slow-moving shoppers and scattering a flock of speckled geese, much to the intense irritation of their owner. My disciple appeared to be heading in the direction of the gymnasium.

I shook my head and made a mental note to have a word with him about carrying out his tasks promptly. And while I was at it, I reminded myself to purchase a small pouch for him in which to carry his money. Most Athenians carried their spare change in their mouth, a practice that had always struck me as somewhat unpleasant. It was time Hermogenes was broken of that particular habit. And perhaps if he were to find himself on the other side of his present obsession with makeovers, he would not pester me so much about having a—what had he called it?—ah yes, a brand.

I knotted the strings of my own money pouch and repositioned the still empty basket under my arm, then I began to make my way purposefully through the crowd and over to the shaded section of the market where the cheese vendors set up their stalls.

The Athenian Agora was a bustling place, alive with activity at all hours of the day and night. Hoplites in heavy armour practised their battle formations alongside food sellers grilling dodgy sausages. Perfume makers boiled roses beside limed and dusty stone masons chipping away at their latest commission. And everywhere packs of low-born children scampered about, constantly underfoot, their bright eyes always searching for the opportunity to snatch a plum or a loaf of bread from an unwary merchant.

In front of the law courts, speech writers rubbed elbows with Thessalian witches, the former ready to help less articulate men defend themselves in court, the latter offering curse tablets, should that help prove ineffective. The air was thick with the smell of spiced stews simmering on outdoor cookstoves and shaven-headed slaves too long from the bathhouse. Greasy smoke rose from the sacred flames of a thousand small sanctuaries and shrines, while little owls flew and defecated where they would, secure in their protected status as Athena’s sacred bird. It was dusty, noisy, and often very hot.

There were few places I loved better.

That morning, a wizened little prune of a merchant was trying to wrangle a peacock back into its carrying cage. I stopped to lay a wager on the outcome. The bird won, naturally (peacocks are notoriously feisty, ill-tempered creatures, though they do roast up a treat), and I came out of it a few obols richer. I dodged around a herd of squealing pigs, waved off a shabby-looking seer who wanted to interpret my dreams, and paused to listen to Hadinos, the market crier, call out the news of the day.

Hadinos was an extremely large man, as tall as a Macedonian, with the shape of a pithos, one of those bulk storage containers used for shipping. He had a voice that had, in the past, carried easily across many a battlefield and could now boom effortlessly over the noisy cacophony of a busy market. But Hadinos had nothing of interest to call today, merely some details about a lawsuit between Anacreon and Hyperbolus, and the announcement of a minor religious festival. I moved on.

I stopped only once for any length of time, and that was to examine some strands of saffron that had come all the way from Thera. Such luxuries were beyond my present reach, but I took careful note of the stall’s location in the event my fortunes should improve.

And then I was under the yellow and orange awnings of the cheese shops.

I am inordinately fond of cheeses—both for cooking and consuming—and I lingered a while, examining what was on offer. There was much I could not afford. Sheep’s milk cheese, goat’s milk cheese, pots of salty curds, cheeses rubbed with olive oil or herbs and spices, leaf-wrapped wheels of harder cheeses carefully aged in caves or special ripening rooms. I finally settled on a small pot of soft goat cheese, haggling with the shopkeeper until the price was more reasonable. I had never seen the fat cheese vendor before, but his cheese was white and creamy and he assured me that his impressive girth was due primarily to the superior quality of his product.

I was on my way back to The Herms, and had just stopped at a pretty flower seller’s stand to have a closer look at her selection of violets, when Hermogenes came pelting up. His dark curls were wild, his cloak was bunched over his shoulders, and he was panting as if he’d just run from Marathon itself.

Chef! he gasped. Amazing news!

I caught his arm. Lower your voice! I commanded. People are staring.

But, Chef, he said, his tone somewhat more modulated. I’ve just seen—

The athletes at the gym?

My disciple harboured a not-so-secret dream of being an athlete himself one day. Technically, he was a free man now instead of a slave, and therefore he was eligible to compete in athletic competitions, but his improved status had done nothing for an exceedingly underdeveloped physique. Oh, he was quick enough on his feet (when sufficiently motivated), spunky (when the situation warranted it), but his most outstanding acrobatic talent was the possession of an overly glib tongue—particularly when he was in disgrace.

He flushed at my words now, having the grace to at least look sheepish. Well, yes, but after that—

Let me guess, the chariot racers?

No! I didn’t have time, did I?

Astonishing.

I was at the notice boards. You know, by the Heroes?

The Monument to the Eponymous Heroes was a marble podium topped by bronze statues of the ten heroes whose names represented the ten tribes of Athens. Any proposed legislation, any decrees or other announcements, were posted along the marble base, making the monument the official information centre for the city (gossiping slaves being, of course, the unofficial centre).

I had not thought to peruse the notices today. As a foreigner, I was not from one of the ten tribes, so most of the legislation and decrees did not concern me. And besides, the monument was on the opposite end of the Agora from most of the food sellers’ shops.

What were you doing at the other end of the market? I demanded with some irritation. If I recall, you were to purchase some lentils.

Che-ef! he wailed softly. Just listen to me. Please!

I set down the bunch of violets I’d been considering. Fine. Tell me this amazing news then.

There’s to be a match, he informed me breathlessly.

I sighed. Hermogenes, I know you’re a free man now, but really, you’ll never win an athletic competition. Most of those athletes have been training since they were small boys.

"No, Chef. No, you don’t understand! It’s a cooking match. It’s for chefs!"

What? I steered him towards a quieter part of the street. What are you talking about? I asked intently.

Are ye not wantin’ me violets, then? the flower seller called out.

Not now, I barked, then softened it with a smile when I saw the disappointed look on her face. Maybe later.

I turned my attention