Page 42 of Brother at Arms

I fumbled inside then laid down four sestertii, one beside the other, the equivalent of a denarius, on Samorix’s table.

Samorix snatched up the coins then studied them closely, checking that I’d not shaved off bits of silver from their edges. He grunted in satisfaction and dropped the coins into a small box on the table, which he then locked.

“It seems you are good for something after all, champion of the games,” Samorix told me. “A walking strongbox.” He swung from us as Hadrianus returned, his arms full. “Don’t drop the vessels. We’d have to burn down the shop.”

Hadrianus appeared in no risk of dropping anything. He competently set the boxes of scrolls on another table, stacking them atop one another. Then he carried eight small, covered clay pots and several minute wooden boxes to Samorix and arranged them carefully in front of him.

Samorix, without thanking Hadrianus, lifted each pot and box in turn, examining the seals affixed to them. He sorted the boxes and pots into two piles, the ones he pushed aside making the largest group.

He set the remaining three pots and box in a row across the table. “Now, pay attention. This one is cobra venom.” He held up a small clay vessel sealed with black wax. “In this form, it will stupefy a man without killing him. Will last for several hours, depending on how much he ingests. It’s bitter, so will need to be mixed with a strong wine or spicy food.”

The next little pot was sealed in red. “This comes from a mollusk. It will render a man dizzy and numb for a time, and eventually, if he’s been given enough of it, he will cease breathing and die.”

Cassia wrote fervently, a soft staccato in the quiet.

“Powder distilled from hemlock,” Samorix continued, resting his hand on the box. “It is much less potent this way than when fresh. It can weaken a man, though he might recover.”

Samorix moved on to the next innocuous-looking pot, this one’s wax a pale yellow. “From the bulb of the narcissus flower. It’s a beautiful plant. Rub this on an open wound, and a man will become numb and stagger about. If he eats it, he’ll vomit and his muscles will stiffen up until he dies. He will probably recover if he merely has its juice pressed into a wound.”

Unless, I finished silently, the man was stabbed through the abdomen while reeling from its effects.

“Are these the sorts of things you’re looking for?” Samorix fixed Marcianus with a hard stare. “Two more denarii for the lot.”

“We don’t wish to purchase any,” Marcianus said quickly. “I am more interested in who you sold something like this to, say two and a half years ago.”

Samorix’s brows climbed. “Two and a half years ago? I’m not likely to remember that, am I? And anyway, my client’s names are my business. What’s this all about?”

Cassia spoke before I or Marcianus could. “We are trying to determine if a man was poisoned, three Saturnalias ago.”

“You don’t know if he was or not?” Samorix asked. “Where were you, Marcianus? You like to look over a body and decide what happened to every part of it. Ghoulish, but there we are.”

This was a man who reeled off the terrible things the powders or liquids in his jars could do to a person, and he found Marcianus ghoulish. I noted that Hadrianus, standing out of Samorix’s line of sight, wore an expression of disgust.

“I was a bit pressed at the time,” Marcianus said in remorse. “But the man might have had poison such as this one rubbed into a sword cut.” He let his hand hover over the pot of narcissus, though I noted he did not touch it.

“A sword cut?” Samorix gazed at him in amazement. “You don’t mean someone knifing another in the street, do you? You mean gladiatorial combat.”

“Farfetched, I know,” Marcianus said apologetically. “But it could have happened.”

“Difficult to do.” Samorix slid the pot away from Marcianus. “The other gladiator would have to be careful not to get the potion into any cuts or scrapes on his own hands, not to mention he’d have to obtain it from somewhere. One can make such a concoction from plants in one’s own garden, but do gladiators have gardens? Or the money to buy flower bulbs? No gladiator purchased poison from me, I will tell you that much for free.”

“I’m certain he obtained it from a go-between,” Marcianus said. “However, there is the difficulty of coating his weapon with it at all. Gladiators aren’t handed their swords until they walk out to their bouts, and they wear little but a loincloth and helmet. How would he carry such a pot, and when would he have time to smear it on his weapon?”

The answer to that was that someone had done it for him just before the match. Perseus might not have known that his sword had been coated with the poison at all.

That still left the question as to who could have done such a thing. Aemil was very particular about who was allowed backstage at matches, especially ones as important and expensive as the Saturnalian games. He kept the cache of weapons under guard, and they were always cleaned beforehand, as well as afterward. I realized I’d have to rethink my idea that Perseus had cut the poison into Xerxes.

On the other hand, if someone had fed Xerxes a potion sometime before his bout, that opened the field much wider.

“You have given us much to think on,” Marcianus said. “Thank you, Samorix. Now, Cassia must choose her scroll.”

Cassia finished noting down all the two men said then tucked her stylus into its sheath and closed the tablet. “Yes. Can you show them to me, Hadrianus?”

Hadrianus started in surprise that she’d addressed him directly. He regarded her curiously for a moment then turned and moved to the boxes. Cassia followed, her tunic brushing me as she passed.

Hadrianus lifted the lid of the top box, and Cassia eagerly reached inside for the scrolls. Some had what they contained written on the side—I presumed that’s what the writing was—and some she had to peek at before setting down to examine the next ones. She spoke softly with Hadrianus as she searched, and he nodded or shook his head in answer to whatever she was asking.

Samorix turned to Marcianus. “Why do you need a scribe, medicus? Are you too lofty to write your own letters? I hear you also have a slave to mix the plasters you slather on your patients’ arms.”