Which Poison Synonym Would A Medieval Apothecary Use?

I've always loved the tiny ways language hides things, and a medieval apothecary would be brilliant at hiding a harmful draught in plain sight. I'd reach first for 'venenum'—short, Latin, and practical for recipes. If the mood needed more accusation or drama, 'veneficium' does the trick because it implies both poisoning and sorcery in one neat word.

For everyday speech, 'poyson' (spelled how a scribe might spell it), 'bane', and 'aqua venenata' are perfect: clear but evocative. An apothecary protecting their reputation might use 'philtre', 'potion', or 'cordial' as euphemisms, or even label something as a 'sleeping draught' to avoid outright mention of harm. Plant names worked, too—'aconitum', 'belladonna', 'conium'—they were specific and could stand in for 'poison' when you wanted plausible deniability.

So, if I were writing dialogue or a shop label, I'd pick between the stark 'venenum', the accusatory 'veneficium', and the folksy 'bane' depending on whether the scene needs Latin gravity, legal menace, or village gossip.

On slow market mornings I like to crouch by the shelf and imagine the old labels under my thumb—black ink, cracked vellum, the faint perfume of rue and vinegar. If I was a medieval apothecary trying to be discreet or scholarly, I’d reach for Latin or Old English terms rather than blunt modern 'poison'. 'Venenum' was the everyday Latin for a harmful substance, and you’d see it in recipe headings or marginalia. For the crime-adjacent side of things the lawbooks and sermons use 'veneficium'—which covers both poisoning and witchcraft—so it’s a useful, loaded synonym that carries accusation and magic in the same breath.

Beyond those, there are softer or more colorful words an apothecary might prefer. 'Bane' is super medieval-feeling: talk of 'wolfsbane' or 'bane-water' gives the right tone without sounding like a modern toxicology report. 'Poyson' in Middle English (often spelled 'poyson' or 'poison') shows up in household receipts and ballads; it’s simple and practical. For labeling a suspicious draught you might see 'aqua venenata' (poisoned water) or 'aqua mortifera' (death-bringing water). Apothecaries also liked euphemisms—'philtre' or 'potion' could be ambiguous: a philtre could heal or harm, depending on who bought it. 'Virus' in Medieval Latin often meant a venomous substance or slime and pops up in texts with a darker connotation than our computer-era 'virus'.

If you want specific poisonous substances named the way a medieval hand would: 'aconitum' for wolfsbane, 'belladonna' (or 'atropa') for deadly nightshade, 'conium' for hemlock, and 'arsenicum' for arsenic—those are practical labels that sound right in a folio. And if you’re aiming for theatrical authenticity—say for a reenactment or a story—mix the clinical with the euphemistic: 'venenum', 'poyson', 'veneficium', and a whispered 'bane' in conversation, plus a label like 'aqua venenata' on a vial. It reads like a ledger, smells like herbs, and keeps the apothecary just mysterious enough to be accused—or to be trusted.