Hannibal scrunched up his face as he chewed on a piece of meat. His cooks had spiced and salted it to the point that he wasn't able to identify what particular cut of meat it was. Perhaps it was the flank of a thigh he had ripped from a horribly, insolent advisor of his. Or it might've been the bicep from a sloppy whore-house owner, Calixa, who flaunted herself before Hannibal's personal guard.
Either way, Hannibal was displeased with the dish. He lifted a hand and a servant girl took the plate and its sides away with haste.
His house guests seemed to enjoy the food enough, though, none of them could ever understand what fine taste one can pull out of a cut of meat with correct and precise preparation.
Hannibal had insisted that he ought to prepare at least the main course. His councilmen had looked almost appalled. It was unheard of for anyone with a significant amount of power to ever cook their own meals; especially for a Caesar on his name day.
But none of that mattered to Hannibal. He spent his own time, calculating and hunting the food that adorned the tables stretched before him, so he felt he should be the one to cook and serve it. Rome didn't lack in rude and raunchy folk. But, Hannibal is picky and greedy. He liked to hunt the power hungry, thieving, whoring, individuals. Though it would've been easier just to snag a man or woman from the streets with nothing to their name - rather than planning weeks ahead of time to get his hands on the ripe body of an officer or a lower ranked councilor.
To Hannibal, there is a distinct difference in the taste.
With the comfy and untroubled life of a higher-up in Rome, they never expect it. They felt as if they were entitled to rude and offensive behavior just because they had money.
Hannibal liked the way fear polluted and clouded their minds right before he struck; it added a keener flavor.
Dessert didn't disappoint Hannibal as much. It was Dulcia Domestica; a honey and nut dessert with dried dates. If a tad bit more honey were draped over his dates, Hannibal would've gotten the taste of ruined and ill-prepared meat out of his mouth. As he took another spoonful of sweetened almonds, Hannibal thought he ought to pay the cook a visit after hours.
He was a plump, little man. He would make a fine stew.
A man draped in a dark teal toga got to his feet with his cup of wine and a wooden spoon in hand. He hit the cup over and over, summoning silence in the hall.
Hannibal chewed on the inside of his cheek. Franklyn.
The only reason Hannibal hadn't killed the man yet was because he was a dear friend of Tobias. Hannibal wasn't very fond of Tobias either; if he wasn't so gifted in the musical arts, he would've already fallen prey to Hannibal.
Franklyn looked straight to him with a wide smile on his lips. "My friends! Today we gather humbly before our beloved Caesar on his name day. May it be one that he will never forget!"
The people in the hall cheered and raised their cups in a toast. Franklyn's eyes finally left Hannibal when Hannibal raised he flagon of wine and tipped his head.
"Bring in the gifts!"
Hannibal wiped fresh wax away from his new golden candleholders with his bare palm. The sting sent a shiver up his spine.
As was tradition, hundreds of people inside and outside of the palace had left Hannibal gifts large and small; shining with grandeur or antique trinkets. Even inside of his personal chambers, he was gifted with the finest and softest silk sheets Rome could offer. New deep, plum colored drapes that matched the linen on his bed lined the ceiling of his chamber. It was a pleasant change, yes, but Hannibal felt rather irked that there were people – whether it servants or people of his court – in his personal chambers without him knowing.
There's a soft, tentative knock at his door.
Hannibal narrowed his eyes – who else but Franklyn.
"What do you need, dearest Franklyn." Hannibal set down his tome and waited for Franklyn to open the door. When he didn't, Hannibal said, "Either come in, or leave and do not come back."
Franklyn pushed the door open slowly with one hand, the other held onto the wrist of someone Hannibal couldn't quite make out. Hannibal swallowed back his anger. How dare that fat fool bring a stranger up to the Caesar's private chambers?
"Pardon's, beloved Caesar. I bring you one last gift on your name day. A gift that needed to wait until you were alone." Franklyn's face was flushed.
Hannibal kept a stoic face despite the anger creeping up in fingers across his chest. He nodded. "Go on."
Franklyn smiled nervously and pulled the young man inside by his wrist.
Hannibal partially raised an eyebrow.
Franklyn's smile dropped quickly as he stammered and looked to his feet, "I – I'll be on my way."
Hannibal swore he had never seen the pudgy man move so quickly.
The curly haired man stood alone in the center of Hannibal's chamber. His fair-colored hands moved up to the rope keeping his toga together and he pulled until the fabric and rope whistled as they fell to the ground.