Masks

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Hurry up!” Jerome said nervously. “We should have been back by now.”

Mircea sneezed into a handkerchief, instead of replying. At the rate things were going, he’d be lucky to make it back at all. His head swam. His throat burned. He thought even his vision might be blurring.

“And then we have this one,” the genial apothecary said, bringing over yet another maiolica jar.

Martina was a notoriously late sleeper, even when she hadn’t spent half the day dealing with a burning house. It had given Mircea reason to hope that he might complete his errand and be back before she knew he was gone. But that was before he realized the extent of the medicaments on offer—or the enthusiasm of the proprietor who had sold him so many and such expensive things, less than a week ago.

The man was clearly hoping for another big sale.

Mircea was hoping to identify the substance in the little pot Sanuito had given him before he fell over.

It wasn’t going so well. He’d gone through half the items in the shop, and he wasn’t even sure he recalled what the damned stuff smelled like anymore. Or what he thought it had before perfumes and spices, sugars and exotic ointments had surrounded him in a cloud of different scents, some whispering, some screaming, but all working to drown out even a vampire’s scent memory.

He looked up from the handkerchief, eyes streaming, only to have the owner shove something citrus-scented under his nose. A human would have probably needed it that close. But to a vampire, it was akin to having a bucket of lemon juice thrown in his face.

Mircea gasped and reared back, colliding with one of the boys who had been bustling about, cleaning up the shop after hours. And, of course, this one was carrying a large and probably quite expensive maiolica jar. Which equally predictably, he dropped.

Mircea caught it—just—a hair’s breadth before it hit the floor.

The shop owner gave a little bleat. And then clutched the jar to his apron-covered chest after Mircea handed it over. He looked faintly ill, his face red, his forehead beaded with sweat.

“Oh, gràsie, dòmino! Gràsie! Stupid boy,” he added, glaring at the young man, who stood there with his mouth hanging open in horror, until his master yelled at him. “Go, èrce! Do you think I trust you with this again?”

The boy scurried off, and the shopkeeper carefully placed the beautiful jar on the nearest counter, his hands shaking slightly.

“What’s in that one?” Mircea managed to wheeze.

“Nothing, dòmino. Well, nothing you would be interested in.”

“How do you know?”

“You said cosmetics, dòmino. And aromatic waters and body powders and scented soaps—”

“That’s not soap,” Jerome said, sniffing the air.

How he could still smell anything was beyond Mircea. A boy was peeling a great mass of ginger root just behind him, and just beyond that, a man was crushing mint. Not to mention the golden haze that hung in the air from a bag of crushed mustard one of the boys had turned over, and the . . . the . . .

Mircea sneezed, and then gratefully accepted a cup of water from one of the apprentices.

“How do you dhow?” he repeated, through his nose.

“’Cause I helped make enough of the stuff in my time, didn’t I?” Jerome asked, leaning on the counter. “It was a specialty of the apothecary I used to work for. Pound, pound, pound, cook, cook, cook, mix, mix, mix. The stuff takes forever—”

“But worth it, young master,” the apothecary said, giving Jerome the stink eye. Whether for outing himself as something other than the noble his clothing would suggest, or because he was damaging a potential sale, Mircea didn’t know.

“If it’s made right,” Jerome began, only to be cut off as the man drew himself up.

“We take great pride in our work! We use only the finest of ingredients—and no shortcuts, as you’ll find in so many of the lesser shops.”

The water hadn’t helped much, but the apprentice returned with a damp towel, and Mircea buried his face in it.

“Yes, but they all say that,” Jerome pointed out cynically.

“They may say whatever they wish!” the man fumed. “But we are not known as Venice’s premier apothecary for nothing! We follow the recipe as Galen set down—”

“You’re using Andromachus’s version?” Jerome asked, sounding surprised.

“Yes, of course. It has been repeatedly proven to be the most efficacious—”

“And the most expensive.”

“—if properly prepared as Andromachus instructed. He was the Emperor Nero’s personal physician,” the man added, presumably for Mircea’s benefit, since the tone had changed to oiled deference. “Such a learned man.”

“Nero—didn’t he die young?” Jerome asked.

“Of stab wounds! He was never successfully poisoned—”

“Unlike everyone else around him.”

“—because he knew that the value of a good antidote is beyond price,” the shopkeeper said, smiling at Mircea, who had raised his head, blinking.

“He should do, considering how many times he caused others to need one,” Jerome muttered.

“Had they had this,” the apothecary said, proudly patting his potbellied jar, “they would have lived.”

“Hmmph,” Jerome said, unimpressed. “Where do you get all the vipers?”

“Vipers?” Mircea asked, trying to catch up.

“My shop frequently had to substitute lizards,” Jerome added, helping him not at all.

The shopkeeper smirked. “Why am I not surprised?”

Jerome’s eyes narrowed. “As the original recipe allows.”

“The original recipe was flawed,” the apothecary said. “Do you want to save money or your life? Such matters are not the place to economize—”

“Says the man trying to make a sale,” Jerome murmured. “And you didn’t answer the question.”

“The local fishermen bring them to us, of course,” the man snapped. “They often catch them in the shallows. They know we offer the best price, so they give us first choice—”

“When only the finest snakes will do.”

“Yes, because lizards are preferable,” the shopkeeper replied sarcastically. “They may give it the same taste, but they render the mix useless—as do weak or old vipers. The finer the ingredients, the finer the end product. And that includes the poison!”

“What poison?” Mircea asked, since they’d both ignored his previous question.

They did this one, too.

“Weak poison makes a weak antidote,” the apothecary continued. “We take only the best vipers, in their prime, you understand,” he said, glancing at Mircea, who understood exactly nothing. “We slice them small, place them in a solution of sal ammoniac, add the specified herbs, flowers, and wine, cover the pot with clay, and set it on a fire. When the vipers are properly cooked, the roasted remains are taken out and pounded—”

“Always with the pounding,” Jerome sighed.

“—until they are reduced to powder. After ten days, the powder is combined with fifty-five herbs, including myrrh, black and white pepper, turpentine resin, and poppy juice, all at the prescribed intervals—”

“Which is why it takes forever,” Jerome interjected.

“—and then the result of that is added to lemnian earth and roasted copper, bitumen, and castoreum—the secretion of beaver,” he said, seeing Mircea’s frown. “Well-aged, of course—”

“Of course,” Mircea murmured.

“—and finally it is all blended with a good quantity of honey and vetch meal. It takes a minimum of forty days to prepare properly, assuming all the ingredients are to hand.”

“But isn’t it supposed to be aged thereafter?” Jerome asked slyly. “Twelve years, wasn’t it?”

“That is considered optimal,” the man sniffed. “And we recommend as much to those buying it as a precaution. But in emergencies, it can be used sooner. Galen records that the Emperor Marcus Aurelius consumed the preparation within two months of its being prepared without ill effect.”

“It also increases the profit, if it can be shipped right out.”

The apothecary’s eyes narrowed. And a moment later, he was unstoppering his prized jar and summoning one of his boys with a snap of his fingers. “Wine. The Malvasia.”

“Yes, let’s be completely authentic,” Jerome said, but he looked intrigued.

“I’m not using it because it is Greek,” the man retorted. “But due to its naturally sweet taste, which compliments the mixture.”

“What mixture?” Mircea asked, and finally, the two men turned to look at him. Which would have been more gratifying if they hadn’t been staring at him incredulously.

He scowled. He’d like to see how attentive they were after inhaling three or four dozen potent concoctions. And damn it, he still couldn’t smell anything.

Until a diminutive glass of sweet wine was pushed under his nose a moment later. Just the fumes would have been enough to open a dead man’s head. And yes, Mircea recognized the irony, but he didn’t care.

Because the scent was hauntingly familiar.

He looked up and met the apothecary’s proud smile. “You see?” the man said gently. “Quality will out.”

“What is this?” Mircea asked, as Jerome took the cup, sticking out a tongue to taste the mix.

He made a face.

It obviously wasn’t sweet enough.

“That, dòmino, is only the finest Galene in all of Venice.”

“And Galene is another name for . . . ?”

“Why, Theriac Andromachus, of course,” the man said, looking confused. “What have we been talking about?”

Five minutes later, Mircea and Jerome hit the street, where even the late closing shops had now shuttered for the night. “So much for going back there again,” Jerome said, brushing himself off.

“We won’t need him again. We have what we went for.”

“We have nothing, which is why he was annoyed,” Jerome pointed out. “Would you like to tell me why I almost got beaten up over something neither of us can use?”

“If you can answer a question for me first.”

“Such as?”

They stopped and pressed against the building to let a peddler, with a cart full of leftover fish, down the narrow sidewalk. “Such as, where did Sanuito get a pot of outrageously expensive poison antidote when he was totally destitute?”

“Sanuito?”

“And why did he have it on a tray of soaps and cosmetics? And why did he offer it to me a day before he suddenly went mad and killed himself?”

“That’s three questions,” Jerome said, looking troubled.

“Yes. And I don’t have an answer to any of them,” Mircea said grimly. “But I know someone who might.”