The Splendor Before the Dark

by Margaret George

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Think!” I ordered her, so curtly that she winced.

  “Perhaps . . . a few hours after I eat. And it lasts until the next morning.”

  “Does it wear off gradually or all at once?”

  “Sometimes one way, sometimes another.”

  “Which is more usual?”

  “I don’t know. Why are you asking me these questions? I came to join you to have a pleasant morning, and instead you act angry and interrogate me.” She stood up. “I am leaving.”

  “I am angry, but not at you. And you are not leaving. You will stay here while I send for Andromachus.”

  “I’ve had enough physicians. They didn’t help. They didn’t know how to treat my illness.”

  “That was because they didn’t know what to look for. Now this one will.” I grabbed her arm and made her sit back on the couch.

  Would my sudden suspicions be confirmed? I dreaded the answer.

  Andromachus took his time about coming. The tall Cretan had moved into the palace with us and had several suites of rooms, but they were a far distance from ours that faced the lake. Finally he was announced and came forward in his usual dignified manner.

  “And what does Caesar require?” he asked, bowing. He was looking at me with his keen eyes. Although he was my personal physician, I saw him seldom, as I was rarely sick.

  “It’s not me,” I said. “It is my wife.”

  Now he turned and observed her. Then he moved closer, as if he were inspecting a painting. “Wan color. Puffy eyelids.” He took her wrist and rotated it. “Limp muscles. May I ask you to stand up?”

  Poppaea obeyed. He turned her around and made her balance on one leg.

  “Hmm. Of course, she is pregnant, and that changes the body.”

  “You can speak directly to me, Andromachus,” she said. “My hearing hasn’t failed—yet.”

  “Of course, Augusta. I see that you are suffering from some upset of the natural courses of the body. How much to blame on the pregnancy I cannot say.”

  “I felt well throughout my last pregnancy.”

  “We know all pregnancies are different, just as all children are different. They manifest their differences even in the womb. And your last was a girl. Perhaps this means this one is a boy.”

  “Boys!” I laughed. “Troublemakers from the start.” But my words covered my anxiety. I was not convinced pregnancy was the answer. “Shall we retire to more private quarters?” I said, eyeing the guards standing around the perimeters of the room. Tigellinus has spies everywhere. And not just Tigellinus.

  In our inmost room, with only one entrance and sealed off by a series of doors, we could speak freely. And I did.

  “Is she being poisoned?” I asked.

  Poppaea gasped. Andromachus did not.

  “Possibly,” he said.

  “You are the expert on poisons,” I said.

  “I am an expert on the treatment, not the poisons themselves,” he countered. “You know my special antidote, which covers all poisons.”

  “Yes, yes. Sixty-one ingredients. It’s in your poem. But for all the gods’ sake, why did you write the recipe in the form of an elegiac poem?”

  He smiled and swayed slightly on his feet, like a supple reed. “Poetry will last longer than prose,” he said. “And it’s harder to alter. Changing it would mess up the meter of the verse.”

  Perhaps I should have included him in my writers’ group, then—this scientist who wrote his formulas in verse.

  Naturally he produced a copy of it. He was a true writer, then. Our eagerness to display our art is ever present. Now he unrolled it and began reading the dedication to me. “‘Hear of the force of the antidote with many ingredients, Caesar, giver of freedom that knows no fear, hear, Nero!’”

  Flattery. Didn’t Lucan write, every deity / will yield to you, to your decision nature will leave / which god you wish to be? Now the words taunted me, stung, trumpeting his hypocrisy.

  “You needn’t read it all. Just remind me of the ingredients. I remember that squill bulbs, opium, and pepper were main ones.”

  “Ah, but you have left out the secret one, the one that crowns the whole. Chopped vipers!” He beamed.

  Poppaea almost retched. “Now I do feel as if I will vomit. I won’t take such a concoction.”

  “You may not need to,” Andromachus said. “Unless it is used as an antidote, it can cause harm in itself. So we would need to prove you have been ingesting poison. Or exposed to it—it can be in ointments or even in the air. It can be in clothes, or on surfaces—”

  “Enough, enough!” I said. “There is someone who will know. And we will go there, together.”

  Locusta. The queen of poisoners. I had long owed her a visit.

  * * *

  • • •

  The fields were quiet and autumnal after we left Rome behind, heading north on the Via Flaminia toward Locusta’s establishment, her academy of pharmacology, as she called it. I called it the college of poison. I could call it whatever I liked, since I was its patron. Yes, I had set her up in business in gratitude and acknowledgment that I owed my life to her skills and my throne as well. I had outbid my opponents in vying for her expertise. Now I was emperor and they were ashes. Afterward I had freed her from the dreary round of imprisonments and releases that she had endured at the hands of the capricious imperial family. She had earned her safe haven. I had hoped never to need her actual services again but to keep her as a consultant in case lesser Locustas targeted me.

  The harvest was in, the countryside resting, clothed in shades of soothing brown, dull green, and gray. The land lay hushed and satiated. It had been a plentiful harvest this year, especially for grapes, causing a run on amphoras when the vintage was ready.

  We trundled along the paved road in the carriage that was best for Poppaea’s condition. Locusta’s academy was some distance outside Rome. Through the windows came the tangy scent of fallen apples, and, more pungently, rotting pears under trees. As we came to the hills, where fields gave way to orchards, and began to climb, I could see wild meadows rippling under the autumn wind, and crows flapping overhead, black shadows against the cloudless sky.

  At the top of a gentle hill Locusta’s establishment spread out, covering the entire area. There were several buildings, long low ones, and three with glass sides. Not entirely glass, of course, no one sheet of glass could ever be that large, but many panes soldered together. There were also long rectangular plots with neat planted rows, some plants still green. A number of people were working in the rows, pruning, raking, and watering. We came to a stop, and the people looked up, curious. I saw a number of other carriages and horses there; business was apparently brisk. Was Lucan one of the customers?

  A barrel-shaped woman came hustling over to us, frowning. She was going to tell us to park elsewhere or that the business was closed for today. Her mouth was open to say it when I stepped out. She shrieked. Then she fell onto her knees.

  “Oh, oh! Caesar, Caesar, I never thought to see you—like this—an arm’s length away—”

  Once such reactions were flattering. Then amusing. Now they were merely tiresome. I would have to soothe her.

  “Please rise,” I said. “What is your name?” That usually pleased them, to be asked their names.

  “Portia,” she said. “Oh, oh—”

  Before she could go on, I said, “I have come to see your mistress. Please direct us to her.”

  Confused and giddy, Portia pointed to one of the smaller buildings and led us there. She kept stumbling over her own feet. Bowing and bending, she left us at the door and went to warn Locusta. But she need not have worried; Locusta would not have been flustered. Nothing flustered Locusta.

  Soon Locusta, tall and magisterial, appeared at the door. She smiled.

 
; “You are come at last!” she said. “Welcome, welcome!”

  “I promised,” I said. “And I keep my promises.” I indicated Poppaea and Andromachus. “I have brought guests. My wife, the Augusta, and my personal physician, Andromachus of Crete.”

  “All the more welcome,” she said. “Come.”

  She led us through several rooms with shelves of glass vials, vases, jugs, and bottles until we came to a large chamber that looked like an office. There was a long trestle table, with scrolls, tablets, pens, and inks at the ready. Comfortable chairs were scattered about. Two bronze braziers glowed with welcome warmth.

  “As you can see, I have used your bounty well,” she said, indicating the room. “If you care to see my books—”

  I laughed. “I have not come as a landlord but as a friend. And as someone seeking a consultation.”

  Her expression did not change. She showed neither alarm nor curiosity. She merely smiled reassuringly. “Speak what is on your mind. I shall try to answer.”

  “My wife is not well. Whether it is by natural means or unnatural, that is what we want to know.”

  “Tell me all,” she said, and we did. She listened intently.

  “You were wise to come to me,” she said. “And you, Andromachus, to warn that an antidote, where one is not needed, can become a poison itself.” She sighed and addressed Poppaea directly. “Your symptoms are vague. They do not fit the known pattern of familiar poisons. And you have suffered from this for several months. It is much more difficult to make a slow-acting poison than a fast one. Of course, if it is fed in continual small doses . . . but that requires that the poisoner act over and over and over, without being detected. Someone would have to live with you in order to have that opportunity and proximity.”

  “Then perhaps we should give the antidote as a general precaution,” said Andromachus. “As I say in the preface to my recipe, it gives freedom from fear.”

  “I am not convinced about the efficacy of the antidote,” she said, “begging your pardon. I would have to see it demonstrated to believe it. And I understood that your antidote was specific only against animal poisons.”

  “Not so, not only animals. I will bring some samples and we can test them against your poisons composed of either plants or animals,” he said. “We can use pigs and goats.”

  She shot him a look. “Yes, that is what I use as testers. Did you think otherwise? People, perhaps?”

  He spread his hands. “Well, one hears things . . . with someone as famous as you, naturally things get exaggerated.”

  “You are famous yourself,” she said kindly. “But I believe the emperor has another physician with a rival antidote remedy. What of him?”

  Andromachus laughed dismissively. “Oh, Xenocrates of Aphrodisias? His remedy is disgusting—eating human livers and the secretions of hippopotami and elephants.”

  “Obviously a quack,” said Locusta.

  “I’m not so sure,” I said. “Maybe he should come and join in with the testing.”

  “All this talk is not helping me!” cried Poppaea. “I want your diagnosis. That is all I care about.”

  Locusta thought a moment. “I cannot confirm that you are being poisoned. There is no convincing proof of it for now.”

  Poppaea almost burst into tears, then controlled herself. “So all I can do is wait? See if I get worse?”

  “For now, yes,” Locusta said. “That, hard as it may be, is the safest route to take.” She sent for a slave and ordered some food and drink. “You may rest assured it harbors nothing harmful,” she told Poppaea. “While you and Andromachus stay here, I would like to show the emperor my academy. After all, it may be a long time before he returns. And I think what I have done will impress him.”

  She proudly led me inside the sheltered brick buildings, where rows and rows of plants were growing in pots—hemlock, henbane, tansy, monkshood, oleander, azaleas, small yews. “We bring them outdoors most of the year, but this way the winter does not end our business,” she said. Another building was kept dim and dank. This housed beds of lethal mushrooms—the death cap with its ghostly white crown, the death angel, and several others. “There’s no antidote to these,” she said cheerfully. Yes, just ask Claudius.

  Another kept bees, but not ordinary ones: these were fed on oleanders and azaleas to produce poisonous honey. A barn had rows of cages with snakes, spiders, toads, and scorpions. Tanks held stinging jellyfish, sea snakes, sea anemones, the lovely striped zebrafish of the Red Sea, with poison in its fins.

  “You can see why I need such a large staff,” she said. “Feeding the spiders is particularly demanding. They eat constantly!”

  “Yes, I can see that. Tell me, how is business?”

  “Doing well. I am forever grateful to you for making it possible for me to practice openly.”

  “It was the least I could do,” I said. “Since you are the foremost in this . . . profession, has anyone come to see you asking about—me?”

  She frowned. “No. You know I would come immediately to Rome to tell you.”

  “A would-be poisoner might realize that and go to someone else. Someone not so skilled but not so loyal to me.”

  “This is not an idle question, then. Do you have suspicions? Is there any reason to think you are in danger?”

  “No . . . it’s just a feeling I have, an apprehension.” An overblown one. Mocking my poem with a fart is not the same as poisoning me. Writing a play about Octavia does not mean the author is out to kill me. But still . . . “It is probably just my imagination.”

  “An emperor needs an overalert imagination if he is to survive,” she said. “Keep a close watch. I promise to let you know if anyone comes to me or if I hear anything.”

  XXX

  LOCUSTA

  In the falling dusk I watched the imperial carriage pull away and head down the hill. The wheels chewed at the gravel path, and the carriage would lurch until it reached the paved road farther on.

  The carriage. Its swaying and jolting was a far cry from the chariot Nero had driven at the Circus Maximus. Then he had flown like the wind, so I heard. Like everyone else, I have my spies. I could hardly operate without them. But I did not need spies to report his race to me. All of Rome was buzzing about it. Knowing him as I did, I imagined that for those brief moments he had transcended time and earthly cares. But it had ended abruptly when he crossed the finish line. Now he was awash in cares again—the burden of being emperor. He stays awake so that we might sleep in peace.

  If, all those years ago when the prospect of being emperor was a poison mushroom away, did he have any comprehension of what was waiting on the other side? No, how could he? He was just sixteen and saw only the escape that being emperor offered—escape from bondage to his mother, from strictures and denied dreams. Now he had entered fully into another kind of bondage, with no deliverance as long as he lived. Emperors did not retire into private life, like philosophers. There was only one retirement for an emperor—the grave. And if he is lucky, a natural descent into it at an advanced age.

  But the past record for that was not encouraging. There were rumors, never proved, that Augustus was helped into his divinity by Livia, that Tiberius was put onto Charon’s boat by Caligula. Caligula himself was assassinated in broad daylight.

  Claudius at night at a banquet. And we all know what happened to Julius Caesar.

  If I believed that the gods were kindly and cared for our welfare, I would sacrifice and pray, Protect him, protect him, do not let him come to harm! But they are oblivious to us and our needs and concerns. There is no help in heaven. We must help ourselves, and that is all there is for us.

  It was almost dark, and lamps had been lit inside the main building. A mist was rising from the valley, obliterating the features below. The carriage would have to plunge into the mist; the trip back to Rome would be a slow one. I shivered and hurried int
o the building.

  Several workers were waiting to talk to me. I took them in turn. A gardener was concerned about the tansy.

  “I brought it inside two weeks ago, but it is drooping anyway,” he said. “I have been careful not to overwater.”

  “Do we still have stocks outside?” I asked.

  “A few. There is always a reserve that survives the winter.”

  “Keep a watch. Cover those at night to blunt the cold. Then if the potted ones die, we will still have the outdoor ones.” Tansy was the tried-and-true remedy for ending pregnancies. It was much in demand.

  Another person was concerned about the henbane. “There are too many flowers,” she said. “It is using all its strength in flowering and the leaves will be cheated.”

  “Then pinch them off, but wear gloves.” I laughed. “The pretty white flowers will make a nice bouquet, but remember that the water they are in will be poisonous. Dispose of it where it won’t do harm.” Henbane caused the heart to beat so hard it killed itself.

  A man complained about the jellyfish. “I got a vicious sting from one of them.”

  “You must have forgotten your gloves.”

  “No. He stung right through them.” He held up his hand, covered with red welts.

  Problems, problems. They were constant in this business. But I wouldn’t want to do anything else.

  I retired to my workroom and went over the books for orders and payments. Business was constant—poisonings knew no seasons, which was why I had to have indoor facilities. Illnesses knew no seasons, either, and the curative potions I could concoct were at least half my business and a growing one. Perhaps in a little while it would be my main business, bringing health and freedom to those trapped in a cage of sickness.

  In the yellow lamplight I noticed an order for powdered cobra venom. That was unusual. I looked more closely. I did not recognize the customer’s name, but the address was Rome. I called my secretary.

  “Do you recognize this name?” I asked, pointing to it.