I tasted it!'
'It does seems unlikely that garum from different makers could be so completely identical.'
'Unlikely? Impossible! Fabricius must have stolen my secret recipe!'
So it happened, for the promise of a lifetime's supply of the world's best garum-and because Lucius Claudius is my good friend and steadfast patron-that I found myself in the vicinity of Pompeii a few days later, taking a tour of Lucius's garum manufactory with the foreman, a tall, wizened slave named Acastus. I carried a letter of introduction from Lucius and posed as a would-be investor.
The impressive compound was situated beside a stream that emptied into the bay at the foot of Mount Vesuvius. Patios surrounded large sunken tanks in which the sardines were fattened; the murky water glistened with masses of darting silver fish. A warehouse held great stores of salt, herbs, and spices. Nearby there was a shed where artisans crafted clay vessels; storage pots for spices, as well as special pots for making the garum and amphorae for transporting it, were made on-site. There was a large stable full of horses and wagons for transporting the finished product overland to various Italian cities, as well as a waterfront facility for loading ships that would take the garum to markets as far away as Alexandria. Among those who could afford it, the garum of Lucius Claudius was a much sought-after, highly valuable commodity, the integrity of which he wished devoutly to safeguard.
At the center of the compound was the large, charmingly rustic house where Lucius stayed when he was in residence. Attached to the house were the guest quarters where I would be staying. The up-per story contained Acastus's office, where pigeon-hole shelves were stuffed with correspondence and tables were stacked high with ledgers. From his balcony, beyond the warehouse, I could see the glittering bay dotted with sails. Closer at hand, beyond the wooded cleft by the stream, I could see the roofs and terraces of a neighboring compound.
'What's that place?' I asked.
Acastus squinted. 'Oh, that's the manufactory of Marcus Fabricius. They make garum, too, or something they call garum. Of no interest to a serious investor, I assure you. Their product is quite inferior.'
'I see. Can you show me exactly how the garum is prepared?'
'What's that you say?'
I repeated my request, more loudly.
'Certainly,' wheezed Acastus. He seemed so old and frail that any master but Lucius would likely have replaced him long ago; but Lucius had a kindly streak, despite his patrician snobbery. Acastus, he had assured me, was the most trustworthy of all the foremen on all his farms and manufactories (for garum was only one of Lucius's moneymaking enterprises). Acastus oversaw production, scheduled shipments, billed customers, and kept the books. At all these tasks,
Lucius told me, Acastus excelled. But a foreman must be watchdog as well as overseer; if something odd was going on at the garum manufactory, were Acastus's eyes and ears sharp enough to notice?
With a doddering gait, he led me toward a terrace shaded by olive trees, where various slaves toiled over large clay pots. 'Garum was invented by the Greeks, you know,' he said. 'In the old days it was a luxury that only the wealthiest Romans could afford. Nowadays everyone eats it, every day, on everything-or at least they eat some-thing they call garum, whether it's worthy of the name or not. The best garum is still quite costly. Here, we'll watch this fellow make up a batch. Patro is your name, isn't it?'
'Yes, foreman.' A bright-eyed young slave stood before a very large, wide-mouthed, flat-bottomed clay pot that came up to his knees. The bottom of the pot was already covered with a mixture of aromatic dried herbs. I leaned over the pot and breathed in the smells of dill, coriander, celery, fennel, oregano, and mint. No doubt there were other spices my nose was too untrained to discern.
'Who mixes the spices?' I said.
'What's that?'
'I said, who mixes-'
'The master comes down from Rome and does it himself, every other month or so,' said Acastus.
This confirmed what Lucius had already told me. 'But others must know exactly which spices are stocked in the warehouse. The recipe can't be a secret.'
Acastus laughed. 'The ingredients aren't the secret. It's the proportions that make the difference. The master does the measuring and the mixing himself, with no one else present. He's got a most refined palate, does the master. There are over thirty spices in all. You'd be hard-pressed to reproduce that exact mixture by tasting the finished product, or haphazardly trying this or that amount.'
Patro, meanwhile, had fetched another pot, this one filled with sardines. These he spread over the layer of spices. 'The fatter the fish, the better,' commented Acastus.
Over the sardines, Patro spread a thick layer of salt. 'Two fingers high,' said Acastus. 'More is too salty; less, not salty enough.'
Patro repeated these three layers-spices, fish, salt-until the container was full. He then placed a lid on the pot, sealed the rim with pitch, and, with the help of another slave-for the pot must have been quite heavy-carried it to a sunny spot nearby.
'Now we let the mixture sit in the sun for seven days. No more, no less! After that, we'll stir it every day for twenty days. And then…' Acastus kissed his fingertips. 'The finest garum on earth. I taste each batch myself before it's shipped out.' He flashed a gap-toothed smile. 'You were wondering, weren't you, why the master has kept me on, long past my prime? Not for my squinting eyes or my half-deaf ears. For this.' He tapped his nose. 'And this.' He stuck out his tongue.
I heard laughter behind me and turned to see Patro and the other slave cover their mouths and look away. Acastus squinted in their direction. 'Did you hear squirrels chattering?' he said. 'Terrible pests. Known to open the garum pots during fermentation and scatter it all about. We have to throw the whole batch away when that happens.'
'Would it spoil if you simply resealed it?'
'Probably not, but we can't take the chance. The master has a standard to maintain.'
'How often does this happen?'
'Perhaps once a month.'
'I suppose you note the loss in your ledgers?'
'Of course! I keep strict accounting of all expenditures and losses, including spoilage. It's not a major problem; still, I feed the workers fresh squirrel as often as I can, so as to thin the ranks of those nasty pests!'
That night Acastus and I dined not on squirrel but on herb bread and liver pate, with generous helpings of garum. Acastus went to bed early. I stayed up for a while, examining the ledgers, with his permission. Eventually I went to bed myself, with instructions to be awakened at the beginning of the workday.
A slave woke me at dawn. I roused myself, went down to the stream to splash my face, and ate a crust of bread on the terrace. Acastus was not yet up, but the rest of the compound was stirring. I strolled over to the fermentation area.
From a distance, I saw young Patro with his hands on his hips, shaking his head. 'Can you believe it? They've done it again, those damned squirrels!'
It appeared that the phenomenon Acastus had described had occurred during the night. The lid of the container which Patro had sealed the previous day lay on the grass, salt was scattered about, and a whole layer of sardines was missing.
'Mischievous little pests, aren't they?' I said.
Patro smiled. 'More hungry than mischievous, don't you imagine? Either way, they're only as the gods made them. Well, I suppose I should get rid of this batch, then let Acastus know. Here, Motho, come help me carry it down to the stream.'
Together, they lifted the open container. Walking slowly and awkwardly, they headed toward the wooded cleft beside the stream.
I headed for the cleft myself, walking fast and taking a different route. I was waiting on the opposite bank when they arrived. Instead of emptying the contents of the pot in the rushing water, they crossed the shallow stream and began to climb the opposite bank, huffing and puffing.
'And where might you fellows be going?' I said.
They froze in their tracks and gazed up at me blankly.
'We… that is to say…' Patro frantically tried to think of some explanation.
