Excerpt from Feast of Sorrow by Crystal King, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"What do you mean?" Beads of sweat stood out on Apicius's brow.

"It means that, ultimately, you will be judged in the Underworld by how our world and the world of the future perceive you."

The haruspex picked up the bowl and turned away.

I felt sick—it had been a dismal fortune and surely Apicius was bound to march me right back to the slave trader.

"I see," said Apicius, looking perplexed.

The statue of Fortuna glowed in the early-afternoon sunlight. Her eyes, painted blue, stared at me.

As he rose, Apicius repeated the priest's words over and over in a whisper: "Judged in the Underworld by how the world sees me now and in the future."

I glanced at Sotas, but the body-slave only bowed his head. I wished that I could ask Apicius what he intended. Would he send me back? I looked toward Fortuna and dared to stare into that aquamarine gaze. I thought back to my time with Bulbus and how he abused me in ways no person should have to endure. Please, my lady, grant me your favor. Please. Do not send me back to a beast like Bulbus. Please...

•••

After the divination, Apicius was agitated. There was no more friendly discussion on the way back to his domus, which was a short walk outside of town. I was glad for the silence. It gave me time to think about the whirring of birds still spiraling in my mind. The last time I'd seen birds fly in such a manner was the morning my previous master, Maximus, had fallen dead as his slaves were helping him don his toga. If birds foretold death to Maximus, what did the flock of pigeons mean for Apicius? Did they mean anything for me? Terror held court in the circle of my heart.

This terror took new form when I saw the vastness of the estate where I was to work. Apicius lived in a grand domus that rested on a high ridge with sweeping views of the Tyrrhenian Sea. It was larger and more elaborate than any I had seen, despite the fact that I'd been owned by three different patricians, each among the very rich. I was not prepared for the opulence of the house that lay before me. Apicius led us through a labyrinth of painted corridors that sometimes opened toward the ocean and the beach below. We passed through the peristylium, and I almost gasped aloud. The courtyard was immense, and laden with fountains and small running streams. Flowers bloomed everywhere and the rich smell of thyme permeated the air as we crushed the growing herbs against the stones beneath our feet. In an unusual design for a domus, one side of the peristylium was open toward the sea, and specially rigged gates could be closed to create a wall against the elements if the need arose. The size of the house was massive. I tried to imagine how many slaves worked for Apicius. There must have been hundreds.

"Sotas, take the boy to the kitchen and start him working," Apicius ordered.

A sour taste rose in my mouth. "But, Dominus, I need more time to..."

As soon as the words escaped my mouth I knew that I should not have said them.

Apicius whirled around. "Do not question me. Sotas will take you to the kitchen, where you will cook me the cena meal you described, with two exceptions. I don't want Parthian chicken. Instead, you will cook me your 'specialty' ham in pastry and there will be lobster instead of mussels."

Then his tone changed. "Eat no food tonight you did not prepare by your own hands. If you must partake of food other slaves have made, make them taste it first. And under my explicit instructions, you are not to touch any food that one of my guests asks you to taste, understand? Find another slave to taste but you are to take the utmost care for your own well-being."

What had happened to the last cook? A lump of panic rose in my throat.

Apicius put a hand on my chest and thrust me in Sotas's direction.

Excerpted from Feast of Sorrow by Crystal King. Copyright © 2017 by Crystal King. Excerpted by permission of Touchstone. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.