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and bought a light lunch of sausage, fried onions and chopped olives seasoned with pungent garum and wrapped in flat, unleavened bread. I was washing this down with a cup of watered wine when I saw something over the rim of my cup that made me pause.
    A few stalls down, someone was coming from one of the witches' booths. It was a very young man, old enough to shave and wear the toga, but only by a matter of months. He seemed oddly familiar, yet I could not quite place him. He glanced from side to side guiltily as he emerged from the booth. He wore the red sandals with the ivory crescent at the ankle that only patricians could wear. This and some half-familiar cast to his countenance finally placed him for me: He was one of the little group surrounding Clodius that morning. He was, in fact, the one who had spoken and revealed himself to be young enough to think that a group of highborn women couldn't be up to something really unsavory. This was too good an opportunity to miss. I walked over to him, taking care to approach him from behind.
    "Good day!" I said loudly. He all but jumped out of his toga as he spun around, white-faced. He cast a frantic glance toward the witch's booth, clearly terrified that I might have seen him leaving it. I clapped him on the shoulder to show that I harbored no suspicions at all. "I saw you at Celer's house this morning, but we weren't introduced."
    He looked faintly relieved. "I am Appius Claudius Nero," he said, "and I know who you are, Senator Metellus."
    I took his hand. "I am always glad to meet a new-made citizen. You must have donned the man's toga while I was away in Gaul. Are you the son of the Appius Claudius who was legate to Lucullus in Asia?"
    "No, I am his cousin. His father and my grandfather were brothers." That made the whelp second cousin to Clodius and Clodia. Clodius had changed his name from Claudius when he decided to become plebeian, and his sister had imitated him.
    "It's good to see that our ancient patrician families still produce sturdy young men," I said, beaming at him. One more Claudian was like one more rat as far as I was concerned, but I would give him the benefit of the doubt. Every century or so the Claudians produced a good man. The elder Appius was a decent sort. The fact that this one was consorting with Clodius was definitely not a mark in his favor.
    "Thank you," he said. "I--I do not wish to be rude, sir, but I have an--an appointment and I must hurry," he stammered nervously. "I must go."
    "By all means," I said, "don't let me detain you. And you must call on me soon. I would like to become better acquainted." I took his hand in both of mine and noticed that it was trembling. Then I noticed something decidedly odd: On the forefinger of his hand he wore a great, bulbous poison ring.
    I stared at his fear-stiffened back as he walked away. Why on earth was he wearing one of those? I suppose I should explain here. Back in those days poison rings were not really uncommon, but barbarians often think that we used them to poison our enemies. They fancy that the rings had spring-loaded lids to facilitate the surreptitious sprinkling of poison into an enemy's cup. Actually, they were a means of quick suicide. The domed chamber was cunningly wrought as a seamless capsule filled with poison. There was no access to the poison save by breaking open the capsule. In times of civil strife, when picking the wrong faction could mean death, you saw them everywhere. They were rare in tranquil times. These were relatively tranquil times.
    I wore a poison ring myself from time to time. When you knew that at any moment a rampaging mob might break your door down, or your enemies were chasing you through the alleys, it was comforting to have a fast escape. Just bite through the thin gold, suck out the poison, and you might avoid being tortured, or hurled from the Tarpeian Rock, or dragged on a hook into the Tiber.
    The boy was far too young to have serious enemies. Perhaps, I