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

"How did I anger him?" I asked Sotas when Apicius was out of earshot. I had to look up to meet his eyes—the top of my head came only to his chest.

"It wasn't you. It was the haruspex."

"Why did he want to buy me so badly?"

Sotas gave me a crooked smile. "Because you're a good cook, or at least you were the night Apicius ate at Maximus's house. Apicius still talks about that meal. He wants that for his own table. He wants someone who will help him become gastronomic adviser to Caesar. He is expecting you to be that person. As for money, you'll find he has a lot of it and he spends it freely."

"I don't understand. The reading for the haruspex was terrible."

Sotas laughed but it was a bitter sound. "Didn't you notice what he was whispering to himself the whole way back?"

I remembered only Apicius mentioning the part about judgment in the Underworld and I said as much.

"Exactly. Apicius heard what he wanted to hear. The part about success, what was it...?"

"The more he works toward success, the more his sky will darken. Sounds like failure to me."

"Yes, that. He's angry and worried now, but by morning he will have convinced himself the failure part was never said."

I remained silent.

Like the domus itself, the kitchen was the largest I had ever seen, full of bustling slaves preserving food, cleaning pots, and cooking on the three large hearths. The fresh, sweet essence of honey cakes wafted through the air, mingling with the acrid smell of vinegar and the rich aroma of smoking meats. The kitchen was loud and hot despite the ocean breeze drifting through the open windows. A red long-tailed hound lay in one corner, asleep with his tongue hanging out one side of his mouth. A large sundial in the garden was visible through the kitchen window. I had only a few hours to prepare an elaborate meal.

I counted fifteen kitchen slaves. They all appeared to be cooking, not serving, and I guessed there must have been at least a dozen more elsewhere who served the courses of the cena. A few prepubescent youths wandered in and out of the kitchen, likely errand runners. I could barely breathe — by the gods, how was I going to manage all these people? I knew how to run a kitchen, but only a small one, with three slaves and three servers — nothing on the scale of what appeared to be expected of me in the Gavian household! My moment to worry passed quickly, for after we entered the room, Sotas rang a large bell on a shelf next to the kitchen door and all the slaves stopped their work, their faces shining in the heat. He pushed me forward into the room and presented me to the kitchen.

"That the new coquus?" an older, mostly toothless woman asked from her post at a low counter where she was pickling parsnips. Her long gray hair, streaked with white, was loose and cascaded down her back. I wondered how much of it found its way into the food.

"He's your new boss. Don't make him angry," Sotas warned, and headed back into the depths of the house.

I watched him go, unsure of what I should do. The kitchen staff waited for me to speak but I could not find a thing to say. A huddle of women plucking chickens and pheasants kept working, looking from me to the birds and back again. The dog lifted its head expectantly. After an uncomfortable silence, the toothless woman spoke up. "Are you mute, boy?"

The words of my former master Maximus came back to me. He had always said that there would be certain times, despite my status as a slave, when I would need audacity and sheer brazen nerve. In those moments I should assume that all around me understood that I knew best. For the first time, I understood the truth of Maximus's words. If I didn't speak and react with authority, I would never have the respect of the staff, and given all the money Apicius had spent on me, I had better gain that respect fast.

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.