Death at Pompeia's Wedding by Rosemary Rowe Page B

poison in the cup.’ She looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, citizen. I have caused a lot of trouble for you and everyone, I can see that – but when my father died suddenly like that, you can see that I supposed that somehow I had been responsible for it. And when I learned that he’d drunk something poisoned, I was afraid myself. I would not put it past my grandmother to order me a draught to save the family the shame of having me arraigned. You know what she and my father thought about the honour of the house!’
    I nodded. When I thought about it, I could understand. In her position I might well have thought the same myself. I handed her the cup.
    Maesta stepped forward. ‘Half of it will do, now that she is calm. I made it very strong . . .’ But it was far too late. Pompeia had already swallowed every drop.

Ten
    Maesta looked from me to the girl in some alarm. ‘She shouldn’t have done that, citizen. I made it very strong. It was intended to calm her frenzy as well as make her sleep.’
    Pompeia gave her a beatific smile. ‘Well, for once, it didn’t taste too bad. And you needn’t worry. It’s having no effect – I thought from what you said I’d be fast asleep by now.’ But even as she spoke her speech was slowing down and I thought I noticed the telltale lack of focus in her eyes.
    I turned to Maesta sharply. ‘What did you put in that?’
    Maesta was wailing in that keening tone again. ‘Nothing, citizen – or nothing that you would not ordinarily expect. Just the root of mandrake and white poppy juice, though I did add a few wild poppy heads as well. Wild poppy is a sovereign remedy for frenzies of all kinds, especially hysterias proceeding from the womb. Galen says—’
    ‘You have read Galen?’ I was incredulous. ‘How did that come about?’ Galen had been physician at the court when Commodus’s father Marcus Aurelius wore the imperial purple, and his works had been admired throughout the empire. But a copy of a book like that was very rare indeed – even an extract was a hugely expensive luxury. It could take days for an amanuensis to copy out the text – even if you could find a version that you could copy from – and a skilled scribe would charge you dearly for his services; and then there was the price of ink and bark-paper, or even costlier parchment, to take into account. ‘I know the public medicus in Glevum has access to a scroll, but I would be surprised if there was a private copy in the whole colonia. And how many vintner’s wives could read it if there were?’
    Maesta was wilting under my questioning and her former pompous manner had all but disappeared. ‘My family were not always merchants,’ she explained. ‘Grandfather was a surgeon with the army, long ago, but he had only daughters so the tradition lapsed. He came to live with us when he was very old. He used to terrify us children with his tales – how some poor soldier had his guts ripped out and grandfather covered them in olive oil and put them in again then sewed the wound with grass, and how the patient had lived for days and days.’
    She looked at me to see if I was satisfied, but I did not smile. ‘I’m surprised he taught a girl.’
    She shook her head. ‘He didn’t – at least not directly, citizen. Grandfather kept his instruments and things until he died and then my father sold them in the marketplace. But we still had his herb box and a piece of rolled-up bark where he’d copied some of Galen’s work. The theories were amazing: how there is blood, not air, in all the arteries, and how the four humours teach us what herbs to use as cures. I was always interested in that sort of thing – more fun than the weaving and spinning I was taught – and I used to sneak it out and look at it by oil light when I was supposed to be asleep.’
    ‘But you could read it?’ Not many women of her age and class were as literate as that, even if they were Roman citizens. I had assumed until this moment that she