XXXIII: The Colloquies: Kitchen Ears

Two enormous clamshells sit atop the grill rack, each with golden brown upon their banded domes. Their crusty skin is cool enough to touch, and Niko gently detaches each layer, popping the edges before pulling them free.

The thicker, unattractive mold will make a good bottom—this is the story of his life—and that makes him smile. He tosses a handful of semolina into its hallow, spreading and rubbing the grains around before laying down raw cabbage leaves. These large verdant blankets will stop the juices from saturating his clamshell pastry.

Aedan, the druid from Britannia, ascends like a spider from the tallest pan shelf, his sinewy figure hosting a sepia tunic that’s too big and reddish leggings that are too small.

With a shark’s black eyes, he ogles the long pan and its bounty of little meatballs sizzling in a shallow layer of olive oil. Cautious fingers pluck one up, bouncing it from one hand to the next until the heat becomes bearable. Cupid’s lips purse before blowing, but one bite elicits a scowl after popping it into his mouth.

“Don’t you dare spit that out in here,” thunders Welle, whose storm comes with the pleasant scent of lavender.

The tall blond lords over the druid, who stares at him while chewing slowly. After swallowing, Aedan hops onto the table and crawls to Niko like a gangly monkey.

“These are shit,” comes his emotionless Greek. “Where are the pork ones?”

“Get your ass down.” Welle yanks his tunic and topples him to his feet. “These contain beef for tonight’s guests,”

“Why only beef?” asks Aedan.

Welle turns a wary eye to Niko. “Patricians love their soft meats,”

Gallic woman Galbi enters the kitchen, her ginger hair braided, brown robes clean, and a decorative green rope strewn across her pregnant waist.

Each new year, the Servian village residency shifts as freshly captured Gauls arrive with every Caesarian victory. A little person since birth, the Atrabati woman, Galbi, came last summer. No taller than Niko’s tummy, she climbs a chair and gently kisses his cheek before grabbing an apple.

The blond Gaul sits while she takes a paring knife and begins slicing.

“Is everyone ready for the night?” she asks in Latin, tossing a slice to the druid, who catches it in his mouth.

“Don’t feed him like that,” Welle scolds. “It’s unsightly,”

Niko and Galbi grin as the druid grabs a green apple from the bowl. Standing beside Welle, he bites loudly into the crisp skin.

“Move along, or I move you,” he warns in Greek, and then measures the druid’s exiting footsteps before barking: “Don’t even think of showing your face to the guests,”

Aedan stands under the arch for a moment, then changes direction.

“Wellet,” Galbi speaks the Gallic language, unaware Niko knows it. “Have you given any more thought to my request?”

“I have thought about it,” Welle says, then looks her in the face. “I’m not suitable for what’s needed,”

“Your grandfather’s blood and your mother’s position make you the reasonable choice.” She climbs onto the table and sits with her tiny legs swinging off the side. “And let’s not ignore your father’s blood,”

“Let’s ignore his blood, shall we,” says Welle with a frown.

Niko begins cutting the first of his honey cake domes, using a wire to gently garrote its spongey flesh. Thin layers are key, and his keen eyes ensure each is uniform in size.

“This village is a tribe, now,” she whispers. “We must make amends to the horned prince,”

“Let’s not discuss him here,” Welle says, watching Niko take up a wood-handled peel. He slides its flat metal paddle under each layer, setting each thin circle onto the table.

“Didn’t you have a druid coming this year?” Welle asks.

“No druid will come over the mountain, not after years of collapsed fires.” Galbi sighs before offering him a slice of the apple. “Luga told me about the first failed offering.” Concern hardens her brow. “An alpine winter without snow. I cannot imagine,”

“The boys said the wells froze that winter.” Welle takes a piece from her when offered. “Lady Scipia refused to help in the master’s absence, so Lady Vita barreled the villa’s bathwater and sent it over.”

Niko slices up the smaller cake and lays out its pieces while recalling the ugliness that followed Vita’s decision that winter.

“When I got here in spring, I heard it rained from October to mid-December,” Welle adds, eyeing Niko. “Mold caught the village grain stores, and Lady Vita replaced the moldy cereal at great expense to the family coffers,”

“Luga said Scipia wanted to toss her daughter out after that,” Galbi says. “But then she said that some unspoken thing between them kept the girl here,”

“Luga needs to mind her business,” Welle snaps.

“Everyone knows, Wellet,” says Galbi.

Niko ladles each layer with thyme-infused honey before the stacking begins.

“No,” Welle counters. “Lord Skipio is ignorant of that ALLEGED situation, and until Lady Vita decides otherwise, he will remain ignorant,”

Niko sets the largest circle on the bottom before using a bowl to cut the next layer, which is just a nail-width smaller.

“I don’t intend to spend my first winter here suffering,” she tells him. “I’ve suffered enough, haven’t you?”

“My first winter here, two years ago, it snowed like I’ve never seen.” Welle changes the subject. “There were no rabbits, birds, or deer,”

“You know what he’ll come for next, after taking the water and the food,” she hops off the table. “After the fires displease him again,”

Welle rises and walks to the ovens. “I don’t want to talk about that,”

“Of course not,” she follows. “You’ve got nothing to lose,”

“I’ve lost as much as you, if not more,” he claims, facing her.

“This tribe, this village, cannot lose their children or their elderly.” Galbi joins him by the fire. “Sickness will come. It’s all the great horned one has left in his bag of misery,”

Welle raises two fingers, silencing her.

A golden, terraced tower stands several hands high, and Niko tops its narrow body of successive receding layers with the smooth round top of his smallest cake.

“You’re a true master, Niko,” Welle marvels, joining him at the table.

“This honey,” Galbi speaks Latin, taking the dipper by its wand and raising its grooved ball-end. “Will the girls have to drizzle it over the pieces before they’re served?”

Niko shakes his head, pulls a scroll from his apron pocket, and shows her his drawing of the cake on the feast table, honey dripping over its layers from the top.

“I see.” Galbi eyes the many unused layers. “What of these then?”

“Those will be going to the village with you,” Welle tells her. “Lady Vita insists on sending everyone working tonight home with their own feast,”

“So that’s what old Cassia’s up to,” she says. “She and the crones were setting up tables when the rest of us boarded the carts for here,”

Welle takes her arm and walks her to the service cubby under the arch.

“Even if I agree, I can only master the ceremony,” he whispers. “I’m no druid. I cannot lure the horned one to feast—”

She pats his hand. “-we have the Ancalite,”

“Are you mad?” he objects. “That little monster barely qualifies as human,”

“From the edge of the world, the island Owl comes,” Galbi chants. “His talons red with the blood of a thousand wolves,”

Welle’s mouth falls open. “There’s prophecy?”

“He burns the master and returns the golden son,” Galbi nods before shoving another apple slice in her mouth. “That druid who drank herself to death last year. She foretold of an owl in a Roman cage,”

“In the name of Caturix!” Welle rails.

“Wellet, you have a way with the Ancalite.” Galbi follows him to the fishpond. “The owl is said to have murdered thousands, and yet you bring him to heel like a trained pup,”

The tall blond crosses his arms over his chest. “Bringing his sort into something like this will lead to that one thing I want nothing to do with,”

“-We know,” she says. “But blood is the lifeforce,”

“We tribes of the Helvetii have no use for such barbarity,”

She recoils. “You think us backward?”

“I’m not looking down on you or anyone else in the village,”

“Are you sure?” she demands. “Because right now, I can’t see you standing so far up on your high ridge,”

Welle casts an apologetic gaze.

“We continentals are not cave-dwelling savages,” she adds. “But two years of rebuked solstices makes me desperate for these people. They’re all the family I have left, Wellet,”

A moment of silence comes between them.

“Damn you, Galbi,” he mumbles, pulling her out of the kitchen.

Niko admires his honey-cake beehives, and while pleased at how both look just like his drawings, his eyes catch movement near the wall.

The druid’s hand slinks out from behind the grain sacks, taking hold of a rat trap, waking the trapped rodent inside its reedy box.