by Albert Noyer
“I…I’ve never worked on an injury this deep,” he protested.
“In the arena we’re taught that the first blow is half the bout. Begin sewing.”
Getorius shook his head, trying to recall the comments of Hippocrates on the treatment of an injury caused by bone protruding from the skin. It was to be cleansed with compresses dipped in hot wine, then covered with a warm salve of achillea leaves in a thick beeswax base. More leaves were to be applied, and the area loosely covered with unwashed wool. A poultice or tight bandage was not recommended.
He had treated a deep cut on a fisherman’s hand with achillea a few months ago, but the wound had succumbed to black bile and not healed.
Arcadia opened the door from the clinic and looked in. “I thought I heard someone.”
“My wife assists me,” Getorius told Giamona, who had begun to stand up. “Arcadia, this man was hurt in an…an accident. I’ll need your help.”
“Of course. Sybil hasn’t awakened yet.”
“We’ll give Tigris a strong opion sedative. Get the medium silk thread and a gold needle. And despite what Hippocrates recommends, I’ll apply a poultice of moldy bread over the sutures, yet keep the bandaging loose.”
Giamona stood up. “Then start. I’ll bring mud from the riverbank.”
Getorius frowned. “Mud? What for?”
“You think this is his first injury?” Giamona asked sharply. “Look at the scars on him. Our arena may not have the services of a surgeon, but we know about some methods of healing wounds.” She looked around. “I need a container.”
“Let her bring it, Getorius,” Arcadia said, “I’ll get her a basket. I’ve read that Egyptian physicians treat wounds with Nile mud.”
“We won’t argue the matter. Take Tigris into the clinic for the suturing, but put up the sailcloth screen between him and the girl. I don’t need her waking up and seeing this. I’ll prepare the opion.”
Giamona ordered Tigris to drink the papaver juice sedative, then left the clinic to go and collect mud along the banks of the Padenna River, which ran through Ravenna.
After Arcadia persuaded Tigris to lie down on the examining table, Getorius gently arranged the man’s arm on a board. He began a gentle probing while his wife watched.
“The brachial artery seems intact, Getorius.”
“Fortunately. Otherwise he would have bled to death before getting here. But the flexor muscles and tendons are severed. Get me the sketches I made when I dissected the monkey arm. No, wait. It’s useless. Those tendons can’t be reattached. Tigris will never fight again.”
“Perhaps it’s just as well. If he was caught he wouldn’t take well to working in a mine.”
“I’m sure Tigris would have taken that chance.”
“He’s asleep.”
“Good.” Getorius sifted achillea powder over the swollen tissues, then pulled the shred of deltoid muscle as close to its original position as he could. He sutured the skin over it, then repeated the procedure with the lower part of the arm, certain that despite the achillea, black bile would fill the wound. The putrefying limb would have to come off at the shoulder joint. Tigris can face that prospect later…if he comes back here.
Getorius was slathering on the last layer of beeswax, and Arcadia was standing by with the wool bandage, when Tigris groaned and opened his eyes. He gazed around at the unfamiliar room with confusion. After he saw his arm, it changed to one of alarm.
“Steady, man, I’m helping you,” Getorius said.
Tigris eyed him a moment, then jumped off the table with a feline snarl that must have given him his name. The board supporting his arm clattered to the floor. He swung out with his good arm, catching Getorius on the cheek with the bronze studs of his wrist guard and flinging him back against the canvas screen shielding Sybil. The pot of beeswax shattered against the floor, sending the salve flying out to smear the tiles and stick to the broken pottery shards. Getorius slipped on the ointment and tumbled to the floor.
Arcadia leaped back and grabbed at the lightweight barrier to keep it from falling on the sleeping girl behind it. Still growling, Tigris crouched low in a stance he used in the arena, then cradled his stiff left arm with the other hand and loped toward the office door. He was only a pace away when Giamona returned with the basket of mud. The gladiator shoved her and the container of wet earth roughly aside. Mud spattered against the wall and oozed down to settle on the floor tiles.
“Caco!” she spat out. “Shit! Where do you think you’re going, Tigris?”
Without answering he ran past her, into the office.
“He’ll get out through the waiting room door,” Arcadia cried.
“Caco!” Giamona raced after her friend.
“The fool,” Getorius muttered, staggering to one knee. “I was almost through.”
Arcadia caught his arm and helped him stand. “Are you hurt?”
“No…” Getorius touched his bruised cheek and winced. “That brute was strong as Hercules. I almost hope he doesn’t come back.”
“If he does, it will be for the amputation.” Arcadia blotted at the blood oozing from her husband’s injury. “Nasty. I’ll make a conferva poultice. I’ll get Primus. The child can clean up the mud.” She glanced around at Sybil. “I can’t believe the girl slept through it all. Where do we start looking for her family, Getorius?”
“Give me a little time to think about that—it’s been a hectic morning. I’ll be in my study.”
The shadow on the sundial in the garden fell between III and IV when Getorius passed it on his way to his study. He rummaged through the shelves of a cabinet, then pulled out the manuscript with the sketches of the Rhesus monkey arm he had made while dissecting the limb.
Longer and thinner than that of Tigris, he mused. Galen believed that God had formed every part of a body perfectly, and the physician had devoted a large part of one book to explaining the action of the human hand. Certainly, the long arms of the Rhesus were adapted to swinging from trees, but the thumbs were set at an awkward angle, making it more difficult for the creature to grasp objects than for a man. Why were there animals that resembled humans so closely? God had almost duplicated His effort, yet, in a sense, made one creation superior and another inferior. Man was his most perfect creation.
Getorius was wondering about how to obtain another human body for dissection when Childibert interrupted him again.
“Master, two men at Julius door.”
“Childibert, I’ve given you and your wife freedom. I’ve told you that you needn’t call me master.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Never mind. Tell them the clinic is closed today.”
“One man asks about girl.”
“Sybil? That’s different, send them in.” Getorius laid the drawing aside. Could he be Sybil’s father? If so, how did he find out she was here?
Childibert ushered in the two men. One was a stocky man whose ruddy complexion suggested that he spent much of his time outdoors. An unkempt mop of receding brown hair above square brows and squinting eyes combined with a fleshy chin gave him the look of a clerk, yet the unmistakable smell of fish came from his leather jerkin. His companion was taller, with a swarthy complexion that Getorius thought somewhat inconsistent with his soft, effeminate look. The man’s black hair was swept back like a woman’s and concealed under a turban. The brocade tunic he wore looked expensive.
After Getorius stood to greet the two visitors, he noticed that the taller man wore a necklace of ivory beads framing a medallion of a woman, or ancient goddess, who wore a turreted headdress. The personification of a town? There were traces of rouge and eye make-up on the man. Perhaps an actor, but the theater season hasn’t begun, and the bishop is working to see that it doesn’t open.
“I was told you had my daughter here,” the red-faced man claimed. “I’ve come for her.”
Getorius recognized his rough Latin as the local Flaminian dialect. “And you are?”
“Gaius Quintus Viril
o, master of a merchant galley in the harbor.” His small eyes glanced around the study. “Where is she, Surgeon?”
“Sybil is with my wife.”
“Cybele? My daughter’s name isn’t Cybele. It’s Claudia Quinta.”
“She told me it was Sybil,” Getorius countered. “I assumed she was named after a seeress. She—”
“Perhaps I have an explanation,” the swarthy man interrupted. “I am Diotar, a family…confidant.”
Getorius recognized that the man’s accent was not local, Greek perhaps, but not as refined as the classical style his tutor had taught. Diotar’s voice was high-pitched, like that of a male actor onstage imitating a female.
“Virilo’s galley is named after Cybele, the goddess called Great Mother,” Diotar continued with a womanish giggle. “The names are similar. Claudia may have been invoking the goddess after seeing Atlos like that.”
“Atlos?” How can he know about the dead slave? “Yes, I examined him. Horrible. Please, take chairs. I’ll have my steward bring the girl.”
After summoning Childibert and sending him to the clinic, Getorius sat across from Virilo. “Your daughter is quite ill, sir.”
“The Sacred Disease,” Diotar murmured.
“Sacred?” Getorius scoffed. “Epilepsia is no more sacred than a…a broken leg. Hippocrates writes that those who call it that and try to cure the symptoms with incantations or sacrifices are frauds. I agree completely.”
“But Surgeon,” Diotar sneered, “you must also agree that there are mysteries beyond the scope of your medicines.”
“Only because we haven’t yet found their causes…” Getorius turned back to Virilo. “Do you suffer from the affliction, sir? It can be transmitted.”
Arcadia came into the room before the galleymaster could respond. She was holding a bowl with the poultice for Getorius’s cheek. Claudia was with her, dressed in the night tunic Arcadia had given her.
“Arcadia”—Getorius stood up—“this is Gaius Virilo. The girl is his daughter.”
“What have you been doing, Claudia?” Virilo asked in a gruff tone. “I been looking for you all night.”
“Claudia?” Arcadia looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“It seems her name is really Claudia Quinta,” Getorius explained. “How is she?”
“You’ve seen how she is,” Virilo snapped. “Her mind is like a child’s.”
Arcadia glanced at her husband and touched her stomach.
Getorius understood her signal. “But her body isn’t a child’s, sir. Are you aware that your daughter is pregnant?”
Virilo looked down at the floor and shuffled his feet, but Diotar reacted enthusiastically, holding up his gold medallion over Claudia in a benediction. “And Cybele be praised! The child is a gift of the Mother Goddess.”
Getorius instinctively disliked Diotar. Now he felt anger at the actor’s absurd assertion. “Cybele? Pagan goddesses aside, who was Atlos, other than the earthly father? How did you get into Thecla’s church? Who told you Sybil…Claudia…was here?”
“I understand someone from the palace will be investigating the death?” Diotar asked, deflecting the questions with one of his own.
“Tomorrow. This is still the Lord’s Day,” Getorius replied, still irritated, “but I hope Bishop Chrysologos gives the magistrate permission to move the body out of Thecla’s basilica today.”
“You were the one who found Atlos?” Diotar asked.
“No. I was called by Thecla.”
“The Arian priestess.”
“Priestess?” Getorius reddened, but held his temper. “If you wish to call her that. Thecla called me to help, but Atlos was already dead. Emasculated with a sickle.”
“Sickle?” Diotar raised his painted eyebrows in surprise. “Surely, the castration was done with a knife.”
“I saw a golden sickle in his hand,” Getorius contradicted, “even held it.”
“Surgeon, you’re mistaken,” Diotar insisted, fingering his necklace. “Was it not dark in the church?”
Arcadia moved between Diotar and her husband. “I should apply this medication to your bruise, Getorius.”
He waved her off. “In a moment.” This woman impersonator was trying to tell him what he had seen. The nave had been dim, but the blade had gleamed in an unmistakable curve by the light of the sanctuary lamp. Getorius turned back to Virilo. “Perhaps I can help your daughter’s illness. Hippocrates suggested specific examinations to locate the cause of the imbalance…moist, dry, hot, cold…then diet and other countermeasures.”
“The galleymaster will take Claudia home,” Diotar said quickly. “Familiar surroundings are the best cures.”
“Virilo, is that what you want?” Getorius asked.
“Home.” The man looked away. “I just got back from a run across the Adriatic a couple days ago, but I’m at my house now.”
“As you wish, you’re her father, but Claudia may need a sedative to help deal with her lover’s death.”
“And you know where our clinic is,” Arcadia said. “Send one of your slaves.” She took the girl’s hand. “Vale, Claudia, goodbye. May you soon feel better.”
“Cybele,” the girl mumbled without looking up, and walked toward the door.
After the three were shown out, Arcadia sat her husband down to apply the conferva poultice. “So her name is really Claudia?” she asked, dabbing at the swelling with a cotton packet of the water plant’s moistened leaves.
“Claudia Quinta.”
“Hold still, Husband. I didn’t care for that Diotar.”
“Nor I. And I didn’t like the way he was speaking for Virilo. He’s probably an actor…an unlikely friendship.”
“There’s something effeminate about Diotar that reminds me of Heraclius.”
Getorius chuckled. “The emperor’s eunuch procurer?”
“Stop that. Heraclius is in charge of Valentinian’s quarters.”
“And finding him pubescent slave girls.”
“Getorius!”
“Sorry, Cara, but it’s true. You were saying?”
“Perhaps Diotar works in the palace. We just haven’t seen him.”
“It didn’t take this Virilo long to find out where his daughter was.”
“I sent Primus to the magistrate’s office with a sealed note, just as you asked me to do.”
“Primus? Arcadia, I said to send Childibert. If a child brought it, any palace secretary would read it first and gossip.”
“‘Even whispered words are heard in Rome,’ they say.”
“And written ones in Ravenna.” Getorius thought back to his conversation with the actor. “Why would Diotar insist there was a knife at the scene? How would he know what was there? I watched Thecla lock the door.”
“That is strange, but I’m more worried about the girl.” Arcadia put down the bowl. “Hold the cloth against your cheek a while longer.” She wiped her hands on a towel, then came to sit down. “Claudia may not come back. I’ll have her bloody tunic washed at the fuller’s, but we don’t even know where she and her father live.”
“I’d guess somewhere in the harbor area. You know, I might have been able to persuade Claudia’s father to bring her in for treatment, except for that actor. What kind of hold does Diotar have on Virilo?”
“I don’t think he is an actor,” Arcadia said. “Did you see the tunic and turban he was wearing? Silk, possibly from Constantinople. And that ivory and gold necklace? No actor could afford those, even if theater subsidies hadn’t been cut off.”
“Whoever he is, I hope it’s the last we’ve seen of him.” Getorius tossed the medicated pouch into the bowl, muttering in disgust, “‘Gift of the Mother Goddess.’ Atlos was the baby’s father.”
“The poor child.”
“Born of a slave and a freewoman. Claudia’s baby may well end up being thrown off the breakwater wharf on some dark night in October.”
“Don’t even think that.” Arcadia stood to take the bowl back to t
he kitchen. “Getorius, what will happen to Thecla?”
“Nothing. It’s impossible that she could have had anything to do with Atlos’s death.” He reached back for the Rhesus arm sketches and spread the parchment on his lap. “A few questions by someone from the magistrate’s office, and she can go back to trying to bring salvation to her stubborn flock of Arians.”
Chapter four
On Sunendag? I didn’t expect anyone until tomorrow.” Getorius was puzzled when his steward interrupted supper to announce that a man from the Judicial Magistrate had come to see him and Arcadia. “All right. Take him to my study, Childibert.”
“And have Silvia bring us mulled wine, hot,” Arcadia ordered. “The air is chilly tonight.”
Getorius finished sopping a chunk of bread in the sauce of dates, honey and wine in which Ursina had served slices of lamb shoulder. “Whoever was assigned to investigate the death evidently couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” he speculated, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “Well, it shouldn’t take long to answer his questions.”
“I hope you’re right,” Arcadia said. “I had nice plans for us.”
In the study Getorius saw a man who looked vaguely familiar and extended a hand. “I’m Surgeon Getorius Asterius. My wife Arcadia.”
“Yes, you’re physician to the Empress Mother.” The man’s return grasp was limp as he introduced himself. “Leudovald, interrogator for the Augustus’s magistrate.”
A Frank, Getorius thought, but his Latin is educated, less tainted by Germanic than Childibert’s. The Franks had been allies of Rome for eighty years, with the sons of chieftains brought up at the emperor’s court. Had Leudovald’s father been one of the favored youths? “I’ve seen you before…” Getorius thought a moment. “Of course. At the last Nativity Vigil Mass I noticed you talking to the records clerk.”
“Protasius.”
“Yes. Senator Maximin told me who you were.”
“Please, sit down,” Arcadia offered, indicating a chair.
Leudovald ignored the wicker seat in favor of a folding stool. He wore his blondish hair longer than a fashionable Roman might, but shorter than barbarians in the legions. Getorius thought his drooping mustache had more of a comical effect than the manliness Leudovald might have intended. If Virilo, Claudia’s father, had the look of a clerk, this man might have been his colorless assistant; taller, but unassuming.
