by Albert Noyer
At the wharf, the priests had floated a statue of Isis in a small boat decorated with pond lilies. Magic spells in their picture writing were painted on the linen sail. After praying, and purifying the hull with sulfur, the dark-skinned priests sprinkled the statue with spices and milk, then set the craft adrift on the blue Adriatic.
A week later, to the jubilation of the worshippers, a grain galley arrived safely from the Nile delta. Thecla realized there were converts to Isis made that day, but feared that other less-benign pagan rituals were being enacted in basements or atria of the port’s houses.
She eased herself up to sit on the edge of the pool—the cramp in her stomach was persisting—and noticed flakes of paint scattered on the limestone rim. She glanced up at the dome mural. Already less of the image of Christ being baptized in the Jordan River was visible on the mildewed plaster than the week before. Veiled by the painted translucence of the water, the nude figure of Christ and his rough-clad cousin, John, were only phantom images, yet, curiously, the hoary body of the pagan god who symbolized the river was still clearly depicted. His head was wreathed in green rushes, with one hand raised in a benediction of the ritual. Thecla knew of rumors that Chrysologos planned to replace his deteriorated baptistery paintings with permanent mosaic tiles. Certainly, he had enough funds to do so. What the Arians in Ravenna needed was a larger congregation and their own bishop, but the nearest of either was at the port of Ancona, a three-day journey south, along the coastal stretch of the Via Popilia.
Thecla’s assembly was made up of Gothic recruits from the garrison legion, and harbor workers or artisans who lived in the port quarter. Despite Chrysologos’s periodic attempts to close her church, the civil authorities refused, unwilling to risk a riot among the dissenting factions. It had come to that kind of fragile standoff between the differing interpretations of Christ’s nature.
Thecla occasionally wondered why, in the face of Nicene hostility, she stubbornly remained an Arian. The teaching of the presbyter, Arius, that Christ was not divine, but only a man created by God to participate in His divinity and be His intermediary with mankind, had been twice condemned by Church councils. Arius was dead a hundred years, but his creed and the Testaments of the four Evangelists, translated into Gothic by Bishop Ulfilas, sustained the surviving renegade congregations.
Perhaps a Christ who was more human than divine was easier to imitate, yet Thecla realized that the subtlety of a relationship among the persons of the Trinity, “God the Father and Lord of the Universe, our Redeemer Jesus Christ, and the Sacred Spirit,” was of small significance to her illiterate flock. She had enough trouble choosing passages from the Gothic text to serve as examples that might make a difference in their daily less-than-subtle relationships with each other.
Musing on all this, Thecla realized she now felt truly nauseous. She pressed a hand against her abdomen to test its tenderness, and stood up. After relocking the door and taking up her oil jar, she walked across the paving toward the entrance of the basilica. Several pigeons, hopeful for a few morsels of bread, fluttered down nearby, frantically strutting to keep up with her in their comical, bobbing way.
“Poor columba,” she cooed. “No bread, not even a crumb for you tonight. And if you felt as I do, columba, you would never eat again.”
The last arc of orange sun slid below the tiled roof of Lauretum Palace in the distance, recasting the reddish-pink brick of the Anastasis into a dull-brown earth tone. Thecla saw the shallow porch and its row of six wooden pillars drop into shadow, and muttered regret at having lingered in the baptistery. It might not be light enough inside the apse to fill the lamps for the morning service. She found the correct key on her ring before noticing that one of the double doors was ajar. Had Odo been there earlier and forgotten to relock the portal? The nearly senile porter had done that before.
A half-smile replaced the presbytera’s frown of annoyance. After seventy-one Aprils, I’m getting forgetful myself. Thecla pushed open the pine door and felt a shiver ripple through her body. The air in the dim nave was as chilly as that of the outdoors, but something else, some premonition, caused the sensation. Although the basilica was fragrant with the scent of incense and melted beeswax, the pleasant odor was not strong enough to block out the pervading smell of mold coming from the damp walls. A faint light gleamed through the alabaster panes on the clerestory windows, but the chancel was shrouded in a half-gloom. The apse mural of the Anastasis, the Glorified Christ standing at the tomb opening, was barely visible.
Thecla had often sat before the fresco and speculated that the ghostly image might have looked just as ephemeral to Mary of Magdala and the two other women on that awesome dawn of the Resurrection. She also marveled that there were females present as witnesses that morning, but no disciples who were men. The risen Christ had shown himself to a trio of Eve’s Daughters first, and she had long since forgiven the Apostle Paul for omitting that significant detail in his first letter to the Corinthians. A later writing, the Testament of Mary of Magdala, told how the Magdalene stood up to Peter’s challenge to her teaching. “Are we to turn around and listen to her? Did he prefer her to us?” Matthew had defended her authority and rebuked Peter for contending against women as adversaries. Even Paul eventually acknowledged women’s equality with men in his letter to the Galatians, but Nicene authorities now prohibited both the ordination of women and a married clergy. Thecla felt fortunate that Arian bishops still honored both of the old traditions.
Thecla was just turning back from opening the second door, to admit as much of the fading light as possible, when she heard what sounded like sobs echoing in the dim space, coming from the direction of the chancel area around the altar. She hesitated a moment, then walked along the arcade until she made out the figure of a woman swathed in a white robe, sitting on the stone floor near the pulpit. A veil partially concealed her head and face. The woman’s bulky garment rose and fell with each sob.
“Domina? Domina, are you ill?” Thecla whispered, puzzled that someone would be in her basilica at this hour.
Louder sobbing was the only answer. The robes look vaguely familiar, Thecla thought, but I don’t believe she’s a congregation member.
“Can I help you, Domina?” she repeated more loudly.
When Thecla moved closer, she noticed a puddle of blood on the floor that was seeping onto the lower part of the woman’s tunic. Then, in the half-light, she made out the nude body of a young man lying to one side of the woman. A golden sickle gleamed softly in his limp hand. The dark pool of blood seemed to be coming from between his legs. Thecla bent next to the youth and saw in horror that his scrotum had been severed.
“Christotokos,” she gasped, “what happened here? Did…did he…?” Nausea choked off the question. Thecla leaned sideways in a retch that brought bitter bits of crayfish to her throat. She felt the jar she was still carrying slip from hands that were drained of strength, helpless to hold onto the smooth clay. The container smashed on the floor, sending a splash of golden oil flowing over the stones to mingle slowly with the crimson puddle at her feet.
After a moment she recovered enough to wipe a sleeve across her mouth. Virgin Mother…the man has…has mutilated himself. He needs medical help. What was the name of that physician Fabius mentioned? It sounded Celtic or Gothic…said he lived on the Via Julius Caesar.
Thecla decided the sobbing woman could wait until a physician came. With another glance at the youth’s body, the presbytera staggered to her feet. Dazed, in shock, she supported herself on each nave column in turn, lurching back to the entrance.
A diminishing trail of oily blood from the hem of her tunic had feathered out by the time she reached the front doors. Thecla went out into the shadow of the portico, to gulp in cool evening air until she felt less faint. Gradually, her mind cleared. When she looked around for someone who might help, she saw a small figure walking along her side of the Via Armini.
“Boy!” she called out in a hoarse voice. “Child, wait!”<
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The boy stopped and looked her way. She fumbled for a bronze quadrans in her purse, then half-ran to him, hiking up her tunic to keep from tripping on the folds, thinking that any loss to her dignity was of less importance than finding help for the man in her church—if he was still alive.
Thecla was out of breath when she reached the boy. “Child,” she panted, “th…there’s a bronze in it…if you…bring that physician…who lives…on the Julius Caesar here quickly.”
The urchin stared at the old woman in her black tunic, eyed the coin in her hand, then turned and ran west along the Via Porti.
Mother of Christ, have I frightened the child off? In this twilight I must look like some dark-robed sorceress.
“Quickly,” she repeated faintly, although the boy was out of hearing. Then Thecla slid to her knees on the damp grass. The horrifying scene at the church filled her mind again.
Christotokos, eleison. Have mercy, Mother. Who is that young man? Why did he come to my church to…to do that to himself? And the woman. Who is she?
Thecla held back an urge to vomit with a prayer of desperation. “Mother of Christ, now I truly need your help. Let that boy bring back the surgeon who treats Fabius’s mother. Quickly!”
Chapter two
I was called too late, the young man bled to death.” Getorius Asterius straightened up and brushed his black hair forward in a quick gesture of frustration. “Why would he castrate himself?”
“Horrible.” His wife Arcadia shuddered, then remarked, “Getorius, that golden sickle looks like a ritual knife. Didn’t Pliny describe a druidic rite where one was used to cut mistletoe?”
“I recall the passage. Celts considered it a healing plant, but druid priests didn’t castrate victims. Besides, there are none around. Who is…was he, Thecla?”
“I’ve not seen him before. The unfortunate youth was not of my congregation.”
“Your congregation?”—Arcadia’s brows arched above her hazel eyes—“What do you mean?”
“I’m the Arian presbytera in Ravenna.”
“Sorry. I…I guess I’d heard. When you sent that boy for my husband, I just didn’t make the connection.”
“You’re surprised because I’m a woman?” Thecla’s voice was testy. “There were many presbyters in the early Church who were female. Some became bishops.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You treat patients with your husband, my dear?” Thecla asked in a more gentle tone. “Is that why you came with him?”
Arcadia nodded. “Getorius is teaching me to be a medica.”
Thecla commented with a mischievous smile, “Not exactly a traditional occupation for a Roman lady, would you say?”
“I understand your point…Presbytera.”
“Ladies, could we discuss your work later?” Getorius nodded toward the woman kneeling on the floor. “She hasn’t stopped sobbing, nor moved, during my examination of the man. Do you know who she is, Thecla?”
“I’ve not seen her here before either.”
“Get her away from the man, Getorius, and out of that blood,” Arcadia said.
“Right.” He stooped down and lightly touched her shoulder. “You can tell us what happened later on, but come to my clinic now. I’ll prescribe a sedative, then we can take you home. Where do you live?”
The girl suddenly pulled aside her veil and looked up. She was younger than Getorius expected. As she stared at him her wet eyes widened in sudden terror.
“What’s that horrible smell?” she cried, then her body stiffened and she fell sideways onto the stone flooring before Getorius could catch her. Her slim figure twitched and jerked about in spasms, spreading the bloody puddle further on her tunic and over the floor.
“Christ, she has the Sacred Disease!” Getorius exclaimed. “Arcadia, get that wooden rod from my case. I’ll hold her still, while you ease it between her teeth so she won’t bite into her tongue.”
Getorius pulled the girl’s head forward to help her shallow breathing, but before Arcadia could work the thick rod into her mouth, her body stopped twitching. As the girl’s breathing returned to normal, she seemed to fall asleep. “Let her relax a moment,” he advised. “Some seizures can be of short duration.”
“What you call a sacred disease,” Thecla remarked, “Christ might have attributed to daemons.”
“Would you, Presbytera?” Getorius retorted sharply, his blue eyes narrowing under a frown of annoyance. “I’ve not seen a daemon jump out of anyone I’ve ever treated.”
“Hippocrates considered the illness to be no more divine than any other,” Arcadia added. “He thought it originated in the brains of people who had inherited a tendency toward phlegm imbalances. Certainly, this girl has been producing phlegm through her weeping.”
“Your husband is teaching you well.” Thecla looked back at Getorius. “Daemon or not, Surgeon, can the poor girl be cured?”
“Medically, her sickness is called epilepsia, but sometimes I use the common name,” he answered, relieved that his wife’s explanation had headed off a confrontation with the old woman. He glanced around the darkened apse. “The girl can be examined at my clinic, but have you something to put over the young man? Until we get a magistrate here.”
Thecla nodded toward the altar. “Christ would not object to using a cloth that covered his Agape Table.”
“Fine. I’d like to examine his head. Do you have any lamps? It’s almost totally dark in here.”
“I came in here to fill them with oil for the dawn service, but dropped the jar when I discovered this…this horror.”
“Bring me the one burning in the sanctuary. Arcadia, try to revive the girl with my phial of thyme oil, then we’ll see if she’s able to walk to the clinic.”
After Thecla brought the votive lamp and went back for the altar cloth, Getorius stepped around the bloody pool and pottery shards to look at the dead youth’s head. He was surprised to find a bronze plaque around his neck, which most likely identified him as a slave. He held it up to the flickering light and read the incised name.
“‘Atlos Didymos.’ Greek? In any case the Didymos household has lost a handsome worker.” Getorius lifted the youth’s head. It was flexible. He felt his chest. “Still warm. Atlos died within this watch period.” When his fingers felt a lump beneath the skull, he turned the head to one side. A distinct swelling was evident beneath the glossy matted hair. “That’s strange.”
“What is it, Getorius?”
“There’s a bruise on the back of his head.”
“Could it have happened when he fell?”
“I thought of that, but I doubt that he would castrate himself standing up, if that’s what happened here. That will be a matter for the magistrate to decide.” Moving his fingers around to the face, Getorius noted that the eyes were half open, staring in shock. That would not be unusual. He eased an eyelid up and observed that the pupil was dilated. Thecla came alongside with the linen cloth. “Yes, cover him, Presbytera,” he said, standing up. “The judicial magistrate at the palace will send one of his investigators to question you about Atlos.”
“I know nothing beyond finding his body,” Thecla objected, fidgeting with the hair under her veil. “You and your wife are the only others who have seen him.”
“Besides the girl. She’ll be questioned too. Could anyone else have been here?”
“Odo, my porter. But it’s ridiculous to think that he could be involved. He’s barely strong enough to push open the portal doors.”
“It’s fortunate my husband was home,” Arcadia said. “He’s palace physician to Galla Placidia.”
“What?”—Thecla frowned—“Fabius didn’t tell me that. It was presumptuous of me to send for such an important man.”
“Important?” Getorius chuckled. “I was appointed in January, hardly long enough to become indispensable to the Augustus’s mother.”
“I was going to ask you to treat a sudden ailment of mine, Surgeon, but now…”
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nbsp; “Nonsense, Presbytera, I’ve retained my private practice as well. What can I—” A groan interrupted Getorius. The girl was regaining consciousness. “Good, Arcadia, the thyme was effective.” He bent down to wipe spittle from the girl’s lips, but she pulled away. She looked to be no more than sixteen or seventeen years old. “My wife will take you to our clinic, to make sure you’re all right. How are you called, girl?”
She stared up at him. The fright was still in her eyes and her pale cheeks were wet from tears, but she did not answer.
“My wife would like to know what to call you,” Getorius persisted, trying not to sound impatient.
“What is your name?” Arcadia asked softly.
The girl glanced at her. After a pause, she looked down and mumbled a word that was almost inaudible.
“Cybele.”
“Sybil?” Getorius misunderstood the like-sounding names. “My wife will give you something to forget all this for awhile, Sybil. But after you’ve slept, you’ll have to tell the magistrate what happened. Understand?”
“Sybil, do you feel well enough to walk four or five blocks to our clinic?” Arcadia asked.
At the girl’s slow nod, she supported her under the arm. As she helped her stand up, blood splotched Arcadia’s tunic and sandals.
“Let me take her to the front door.” Getorius reached out to help, but the girl drew away and a look of fear shadowed her eyes again.
“She’s frightened”—Arcadia motioned him back—“I can do it alone.”
Getorius shrugged, but stayed alongside. Arcadia held onto Cybele and walked the length of the nave to the entrance. Thecla followed behind them.
Outside, the dusk sky now was well into the last bluish glimmer of twilight. Getorius was grateful that people were eating supper and that darkness would conceal the soiled tunics of the two women. It was better that Arcadia and the girl not be seen—both of them wearing bloodstained clothes would be sure to arouse curious gossip.
