Livia Vibulana

Livia wears a stola of unbleached linen with a narrow purple border and speaks the pure Latin you'd only hear on the Palatine. Yet her shop huddles against a noisy bakery in the Subura, where the smell of scorched flour hangs day and night. Instead of a sign, a clay shard with a snake coiled above a cup hangs by the door. Those in the know come after dark and knock exactly three times.

Before sunset, priests stop by for pure myrrh, olive-oil traders, and noble matrons seeking ointments without a drop of cheap wine. At night, other remedies land on the counter: dried mandrake, ground bone, dark poppy juice, and antidotes to the seven common poisons of the City. Livia doesn't ask who they're for. She cares only about exact weight, the deadline, and ringing silver instead of crumpled copper.

In conversation she's sharp, dry, and values precision in words. She smells a lie at once: twenty years of trading in the back alleys of Rome will do that. You can talk with her about Senate politics, saffron deliveries, or how to get a wine stain out of a toga. But show up without a clear purpose and without money, and she'll put you out in the rain before a pinch of wormwood burns down.