CHAPTER 55

I left the house that evening with a dagger tucked under my toga and headed to a dark corner of the city. I walked down a narrow street filled with insulae, the high-rise apartment buildings that dominated the city, numbering more than fifty thousand at last count. Seneca once told me that the city was so dense with these buildings that if all the apartments in Rome had been built at ground level, the city would have stretched 120 miles to the Adriatic coast.

As I walked, my nostrils filled with the pungent odor of human and animal waste, oil and grease, and the stale remains of the day’s meals. It reminded me how fortunate I was to be able to afford my own house now, one detached from other buildings, with a small garden area in the center. There were less than four thousand homes like that inside the city walls, though mine was certainly one of the smallest.

I found the address I was looking for, a building more elegant than most. It was made of brick, not wood, and had a decorative stripe of Pompeian red about five feet off the ground. There were balconies on the upper floors filled with flower vases, hanging plants, and climbing vines that wrapped themselves around the railings and framed the windows.

I walked past the shops on the ground floor and took the steps to the second-floor landing. There I found the engraved oak door and used the brass knocking ring. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other while I waited.

The woman who answered was younger than I had imagined, thin and wiry with a hooked nose and a face that looked like it had been put in a vise and squeezed to make it long and narrow. Her jaw stuck out, and her eyeballs seemed a size too big for their sockets.

She greeted me warmly and escorted me into a large waiting room.

There were vases of flowers lining the walls and paintings with vivid colors —orange, purple, red, and yellow. A large marble table with a statue of a man I didn’t recognize dominated the room. A few throw rugs were scattered about. This wasn’t the home of a wealthy person, but she was clearly getting by. Business was apparently good.

Her name was Locusta, and she had been recommended to me by a former client.

She beckoned me to a seat and promised that she would keep the meeting confidential.

“How did you get my name?” she asked, crossing one leg over the other and shifting in her seat. The woman brimmed with energy.

“I’d rather not say.”

“That’s fine. You’re aware of my terms?”

“Yes.” I took out a pouch of money and handed it to her.

She took it and spread the coins on the table, counting them carefully. When she was done, she scooped the money back into the pouch and looked at me.

“You must want my top grade,” she said, smiling. Her teeth were crooked on the bottom.

This whole transaction was unsettling. I had expected to do business with Locusta in the dark, in hushed tones, never getting a good look at her face. Instead, the apartment was well lit, well furnished, and she acted like she was selling me an expensive piece of art.

“I want it to work. And I don’t want to suffer.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what they all say.”

She paused for a second as if she had heard someone or maybe just remembered something. “Can I get you a drink?” she asked.

“No thanks.”

She gave me a crooked grin. “For some odd reason, nobody ever says yes to that question.”

I didn’t smile.

“Let’s see, where was I? Ah, yes . . . you’ve come to the right place. Others will sell you potions that don’t work. Bull’s blood, toads, salamanders, snakes, spiders, scorpions, mercury, arsenic —you might as well drink your own urine.” As she spoke, she flipped her wrist, dismissing her inferior competitors.

Then she leaned forward a little and narrowed her eyes. “The best poisons are all vegetable-based —mandrakes, hemlocks, opium. Do you want it mixed in honey, or would you rather drop it in wine?”

I had no idea poison came in so many varieties. “I want it to fit in as small a container as possible.”

“Then let’s skip the honey. That takes up room.”

“Sounds reasonable,” I said, though there was nothing at all reasonable about this conversation. “How will it work?”

“The opium will hit first. Dulls the senses. Makes you happy. The other poisons do the usual things —stop your heart, choke your breathing, tie your intestines into knots. The good news is that with opium you won’t feel any pain.”

She stopped again and gave me a quizzical look. “This is for you, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. If it’s for an enemy, I leave out the opium.”

I had been told that Locusta made the best poisons in all of Rome. She was known for her mushrooms. But it didn’t seem to me that she should be quite so enthusiastic about her products.

“I’m in a bit of a rush,” I said, as if I had important meetings in the middle of the night. “Can I just get what I came for and leave?”

“Well, of course,” she said, standing. “I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared into a back room for a few minutes and came out with two vials of liquid. “Put this into somebody’s wine, and they’ll never know what hit them.” She handed me the first one.

“Can I take it without wine if I have to?”

“Naturally. Just make sure you swallow it quickly.”

I nodded.

“Do you want to know what this second vial is for?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“Most of my clients like to make sure the product works. We can go out to the streets together, find a stray dog, and watch it kill him in just a matter of minutes.”

That seemed like a horrible idea. “No thanks. I trust you.”

She howled in laughter. “A lot of people have made that mistake,” she said after regaining her composure. She chuckled again at the thought of it.

“Thank you very much,” I said as I stood and headed for the door. I had one hand on the doorknob when she spoke again. This time, there was no merriment in her voice.

“All of Rome is talking about your victory. But nobody embarrasses the emperor and lives for long.”

I opened the door and turned back to look at Locusta. Her pleasant expression was gone, and her face was grim and anxious. She walked over to me, handed me the second vial, and squeezed my hand around it.

“This one is free of charge,” she said, staring through me with those buggy eyes. “The emperor likes his wine strong. If it was me and I was dealing with a man who harbors such insatiable grudges, I might want to use them both in one glass.”

I thanked her again and retreated toward the steps.

I had not lied to the woman. My intent was to carry around the most potent poison possible at all times. I already knew how creative Caligula could be when he tortured people. Seneca had taught me well —I was determined to choose the manner and timing of my own death. If the Praetorian Guards arrested me, I wanted the ability to take my own life. Without pain, if possible.

But as I walked down the steps, I also considered this other possibility. What would life be like in Rome without Caligula and his maniacal reign of terror? His uncle Claudius was considered by most to be an imbecile, incapable of ruling. But could anything be worse than the madman ruling now?

Other conspirators had tried and failed. What made me think I could get close enough to slip something into his wine? And even if I could, was it the right thing to do?

There was one other question that had to be answered —perhaps the most pertinent question of all: Did I have the courage to go through with it? I thought I might if it was kill or be killed. Perhaps I didn’t really have a choice.