by Albert Noyer
“When you get back, Arcadia, send Childibert to the magistrate’s office at the palace, to report the death.”
She nodded. “I’ll clean Sybil, then give her a valerian drink to help her sleep.”
After the two women were lost in the darkness of the Via Porti, Getorius turned to Thecla. “I need to go back in once more. I want to examine that sickle in his hand.”
“I’m going with you.”
“You’d be better off staying here, Presbytera. Away from…from what’s inside.”
“It’s my church, young man,” Thecla snapped. “I said I was going in with you.”
“As you wish.” Not the time to argue with her. The magistrate can do that tomorrow when he questions her.
The lone sanctuary lamp flame cast a grotesque flickering shadow of the dead youth on the marble pulpit base. Getorius kneeled beside the body, staining his left boot with blood. He pulled the altar cloth aside and eased the sickle handle out of Atlos’s stiffening fingers. The slender, curved blade glinted in the flickering light.
“It’s gold all right. Looks new, or isn’t used much.”
“As your wife observed, possibly a pagan ritual blade. Druid priests used mistletoe sprigs for their solstice rites.”
“Druid priests?” Getorius scoffed. “Even if Atlos wasn’t Christian, there are none here still practicing that ancient religion.”
“Surely, he was not. We are opposed to suicide, and certainly castration.”
“So Paul was engaging in a bit of irony when he told some Galatians who wanted converts circumcised to go all the way and castrate themselves too?”
Thecla looked at him with a quizzical expression, then a half-smile. “You tease me, Surgeon. The passage is obscure; I see that you read books other than your medical texts. If you recall, Paul also referred to them as, ‘you stupid Galatians’.”
Getorius grinned. Not many clergy had a sense of humor, yet here was a frail, white-haired, woman presbytera, with a face like wrinkled parchment, whose mind was sharp enough to recognize a gentle jest. In her faded black tunic and ill-fitting square veil, Thecla reminded him of one of the swallows that had swooped low over his head as he was hurrying to the basilica.
A gurgle sounded in Thecla’s abdomen, and she turned away, embarrassed.
“Was that the ailment you mentioned?”
“This horror made me forget. Have you something in your case for a stomach that is being tormented by a daemon?”
“Another daemon?” She is witty. “I have a purge, but it’s too dark to find it in here.”
“My rooms are in an apartment across the Armini. If it would not trouble you to go there?”
“No, no. And Arcadia needs time to examine Sybil.” Getorius placed the sickle back over Atlos’s hand, then wiped a bloody finger and thumb on a corner of the altar linen. “I’ll find something that might help you, but lock the front portal after we leave.”
“The body can’t remain here,” Thecla protested. “I celebrate the Eucharist in the morning.”
“That’s right, tomorrow is Sunendag.”
“I prefer to call it the Lord’s Day. About Atlos, Surgeon?”
“The investigator won’t come tonight, and probably not on Sunen…on the Lord’s Day…without a dispensation from the bishop. The floor paving is cold. Atlos’s body won’t deteriorate too much, but I’m afraid your rites won’t take place.”
Thecla sighed. “Odo wouldn’t be able to clean up all that blood in time anyway. I’m not sure how disappointed my flock will be. After thirty-four years, my sermons aren’t exactly as inspired as Saint Paul’s.” She took Getorius’s arm in a firm grip. “And from the way my stomach feels, I’d probably be too ill to preside. Let’s go cast out my daemon.” As Thecla slid the front door bolt into its retaining bracket, Getorius noticed that the new moon was in its first quarter, a burgeoning crescent again engaged in the monthly struggle to swallow its paler host.
“My apartment is there.” Thecla pointed to a two-story building that was on a diagonal across from the basilica. She took his arm again. “Don’t walk too rapidly, young man. These old legs feel even weaker after this.”
The moonlight and torches on the Via Armini threw only a faint light on the basilica’s wall, but Getorius was still able to make out charcoaled graffiti critical of Arian beliefs. GENITOM NON FACTOM, DEVM VEROM DE DEO VERO and GENETOS. Thecla could see what had caught his attention. “‘Begotten, not made.’ ‘True God from true God.’ Your bishop’s vandalizers paid little attention to their spelling lessons,” she commented sarcastically.
“Vandalizers.” He chuckled. The tribe’s name had recently been used in the theatre as a synonym for destructive activities. “Yes, ‘Genitum,’ ‘factum,’ ‘verum.’ But I doubt that Bishop Chrysologos sent those who wrote this.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not.”
Getorius knew Arians differed in their view of Christ’s nature, believing the Son had been created after the Father and was not co-eternal with Him. The bishop occasionally preached against the heresy, but no longer took its doctrinal threat very seriously. Arianism kept the Gothic legionaries pacified, and those converts who were not in the army were confined to their quarter of Ravenna. They were usually not harassed by Nicenes, but outbreaks of violence still occurred from time to time. Getorius wondered if Atlos had been a recent convert. He had, after all, come to the Arian church.
Thecla’s rooms were on the first floor of a building which once had been handsome. Constructed of long narrow bricks, its arched overhangs gave a measure of shade to the windows that gave air and light to the rooms. The curved lines were repeated in a decorative arcade over the shops and in the twin entranceways of the first level. One door led to the upper floor by way of chipped limestone stairs. The other, which Thecla used to reach her rooms, admitted ground floor tenants.
“Christ with you, boys and girls,” she said in greeting to some children who were playing with wooden hoops by the light of a smoking torch set between the apartment entrances.
None responded. The urchins looked dirty and thin to Getorius. Several had hacking coughs. “Isn’t it late for them to be out?” he asked Thecla. “Night air is noxious, and their phlegm humors are already upset as it is.”
“A risk, but there’s not much privacy in the rooms,” she explained. “No doubt their parents told them to play outside so that they can snatch a moment’s pleasure making new brothers or sisters for them.”
It was a situation to which Getorius had not given much thought. His villa had fairly good-sized rooms. These children made him realize that the majority of people who came to his clinic probably lived in places like this.
Beyond the limestone sill, black tiles in a mosaic pavement of worn white tesserae depicted a merchant galley and lighthouse, a picture framed by a square panel with the name C. MARIVS still visible. Getorius surmised that Gaius Marius had been the owner of a shipping business, and had built the apartment for its rental income. Perhaps his family had occupied the first floor.
A narrow corridor, tracked with dried mud, smelled of onions, fish and sausage fried in rancid lard. Thecla’s door was the first one on the right. As she unbolted her lock, the woman gagged again from the food smells. Inside, she lighted the three spouts of a brass lamp from the single one that had been left burning.
“What caused your daemon to misbehave?” Getorius asked, glancing around a small room that looked like both the woman’s study and reception area.
“Spoiled crayfish, I believe.”
“Not unusual. I’ll need hot water and two cups.”
“That won’t take long”—Thecla indicated a small kitchen that was visible through a door on the left—“I always have a jug on the stove. I’ll just revive the charcoal a bit.”
“Let me help.”
“I’m perfectly capable, Surgeon,” she replied with an impish smile. “You find your anti-daemon potions.”
Getorius opened his instrument case. He wasn’
t called out often—sick people came to the clinic if they needed treatment—so his stock of remedies was limited to those most used. For Thecla it would be a purgative herb, cassia, followed by a decoction of mint, rosemary, and lavender, to soothe any stomach spasms she might experience. He set the bottles of herbs and a sieve aside. While he waited for Thecla to bring the water and cups, he looked at several books on her cabinet shelf.
Jerome’s Latin vulgate Testament propped up a Gothic translation by Bishop Ulfilas which he had not seen before. Alongside, parchment-bound works by Arius, and the pro-Arian pamphlets of Auxentius, were balanced by Against Heresies of Irenaeus, Against the Pagans of Arnobius, and a number of works by Clement and Origen of Alexandria. At least Thecla is unbiased in her reading. Getorius took down a slim volume titled Lex Gothica and flipped through the pages. Despite the Latin title, it was written in Gothic; he surmised it was a legal code that governed barbarians. After slipping it back in place, he turned to the chipped remnants of a shrine the Marius family must have used for displaying their household gods. Set inside was the portrait of a middle-aged man, painted on a wooden panel.
Thecla returned with a clay jug of steaming water and two cups, and noticed Getorius looking at the picture. “My late husband,” she explained. “Eugenius was consecrated a bishop at Constantinople by Ulfilas himself.”
“And, of course, Eugenius then ordained you.” Getorius immediately regretted the implied slur. “Sorry, Presbytera, I didn’t mean to be sarcastic. When did he die?”
“Fifteen years ago, but I came here long before that. Eugenius traveled a lot, visiting Arian communities.”
“You were born in the Eastern capital?”
“No, at Philippi, two hundred and fifty miles from there. Father moved to Constantinople when I was thirteen. I was called Euodia then, but I took Blessed Thecla’s name after Ordination.”
“Who was she?”
“One of Paul’s converts. Thecla once described herself as just a mean old woman, to dissuade men who intended to rape her.”
“I don’t know the story,” Getorius admitted, “but that’s terrible.”
“Oh, don’t worry, God intervened and she remained a virgin. Unlike me…” Thecla laughed softly and indicated her husband’s portrait. “After I first met Eugenius, any thought of imitating that aspect of her life vanished.”
“Yes, well…let me prepare your remedy before the water cools.” Getorius spooned dried cassia leaves into the cup, added the water, then stirred the mixture and strained the liquid into the other cup. “This should purge your daemon. You, ah, have a latrine nearby?”
“Don’t worry, young man. I’ve managed to take care of my needs for over seventy Aprils.”
“Of course. Presbytera, I…I meant nothing by my remark about your ordination. My own wife is flouting tradition by training with me.”
“Commendably so. She wishes to cure the body, while I attempt to save ill souls. How old is Arcadia?”
“Twenty-eight next January.”
“I was a year away from ordination at that age, but, I don’t think quite as beautiful.”
“Arcadia’s mother died in childbirth. Her father was away a lot of the time, so she was raised by a governess.”
“Loneliness made her independent.” Thecla drained the cassia and handed back the cup. “Not unpleasant.”
“No, and this mint mixture will soothe your stomach and help avoid spasms,” Getorius explained, as he prepared the dose.
“How long before—?”
“A watch period.”
“Then we have time.” Thecla pointed to a wicker chair. “Sit down, Surgeon. We can talk.”
Getorius had already developed a fondness for Thecla, so he was reluctant to get into what he expected would be a pointless theological argument. But he grinned, and sat in obedience to the mock forcefulness of her voice.
Thecla asked, “Did you find anything strange about the way that young woman in the church was dressed?”
“A white flowing tunic and veil?” It seems she doesn’t have religious differences in mind after all. “It did look out of fashion. Why do you ask?”
“I want you to see something.” Thecla stood and beckoned him toward a curtained doorway. “Here, in my bedroom.”
“What?”
“My bedroom. Where I sleep, Surgeon. There’s a mural I want you to look at. Bring the lamp.”
Getorius followed her into a small room furnished only with a narrow bed, a table, chair, and clothes chest. A rough wooden cross was fastened to the wall above the bed, with three-week-old branches of willow catkins tucked behind the arms.
“Bring the lamp to the wall and tell me what you think of this.” Thecla pointed to a faded mural above the chest. The painting depicted a procession in which a row of veiled women led a small bullock toward an altar. Each wore a white jacket with purple stripes over a long tunic, and a purple mantle that reached to the ground. “Well?”
“Sybil was dressed almost like one of those women,” Getorius recalled. “Who are they? Is it some kind of ritual sacrifice?”
“I was told once by the building manager that it shows a procession of Vestal Virgins.”
“Vestals? But the priestess cult was abolished under, whom, Constantine?”
“No, after him,” Thecla corrected. “By the first Theodosius.”
“So about…forty, forty-five years ago? Then there shouldn’t be any followers of the cult still around, even among the few pagans who might worship in secret.”
“One would think not.”
“You think this Sybil is drama-acting?”
“Perhaps. But it wouldn’t explain the castrated youth. That was never part of their rituals.”
“The girl is ill, Presbytera. She may be experiencing a fantasy.”
“Why in my church?” Thecla nervously touched her veil again. “As it is, we Arians are called disciples of the Antichrist. I don’t need this kind of scandal.”
“I don’t know why Atlos went there, but I should get back and see what Arcadia discovered in her examination. And she may have found out where Sybil lives.”
“A Vestal Virgin, any virgin, lost or not, would be something of an abnormality in this city.”
Getorius smiled. “Yes. I really must go. If you’re not feeling better tomorrow, come to my clinic. It’s on the Vicus Caesar at the corner of the Honorius.”
“A moment, physician. Your fee.” Thecla searched her purse and held up a bronze follis. “Is this enough?”
Getorius closed her gnarled fingers over a coin that would buy a small amount of food, and pressed her hands together. “Use it to replace the oil jug you said you broke. I…I’m glad your ‘daemon’ brought us together, Presbytera. I enjoyed talking with you.”
“As did I, young man, despite the circumstances. Come visit me again with your wife.” Thecla touched his arm and looked at Getorius with an amused smile. “You thought I wanted to speak of our differing theologies, didn’t you? Perhaps, next time. Or we could talk about the implications of Paul’s reasoning that male and female are equal. One under Christ.”
“That would no doubt please Arcadia. I hope my remedy is effective.” Getorius repacked the herbs, strapped the leather case shut, and slung it over his shoulder.
“Christ and his mother with you, Getorius.”
“And you, Thecla.”
When Getorius stepped outside, the children were no longer there. He crossed the Armini to the Via Porti, where taverns were open and members of the civic guard had now joined the drinking. He was only a few blocks from his clinic and the Lauretum Palace, but the difference was obvious in the deteriorated look of these older buildings.
The quarter of Ravenna that bordered the main road through the city had not fared well in the years since a silted ditch which connected with the Padus River to the north was paved over and named the road to Arminum. Four blocks to the east, merchant galleys still unloaded cargoes of grain, oil, wine, cloth, and spices on
the wharves, but the harbor’s south end was choking up with sand washed in by the relentless Adriatic current and the alluvial deposits of the two rivers that encircled the city walls. In the past, the waterways and ring of swamps had made the city impregnable from invaders, but now each year mud and sand deposits filled in more of the beach, marshes, and harbor areas. Ravenna, capital of the Western Roman Empire, was threatened with being choked off from its link with the sea.
The Via Porti intersected at an angle with the Julius Caesar. Getorius’s villa and clinic were at the end of the block. His residence, commonly called “The Villa of the Surgeon,” was located next to the palace, and had been willed to him by his mentor, Nicias. The old surgeon had rescued Getorius as a four-year-old child when his parents were killed in a Burgond raid at Mogontiacum in Germania Prima. Nicias had managed to escape with the baby to Ravenna, where the surgeon set up a medical practice and fostered the young Getorius, teaching him the healing arts. The villa had a separate wing for treating patients, and the luxury of its own bathhouse, with the same sequence of hot, tepid and cold pools as the public one.
After being admitted to the atrium from the door on the Vicus Caesar by Childibert, his housemaster, Getorius slipped off his cloak and handed him the medical case.
“Is your mistress here with a girl?”
“In clinic with her,” Childibert replied, his Latin tinged with the guttural Germanic of his Frankish origins.
Getorius went through the corridor that connected the medical area with his living quarters. After he rapped on the door, Arcadia opened it. He looked past his wife.
“How is she?”
“Asleep. Sybil hasn’t had another attack. I gave her a good dose of valerian, and dressed her in a clean tunic.”
“Good. I treated Thecla for an upset stomach, and then we talked a bit. She believes Sybil may be deluded enough to think she’s a Vestal Virgin.”
“A Vestal?” Arcadia shook her head. “Sybil could pretend to be a priestess, but definitely not a virgin. She’s about three months pregnant.”
