by Albert Noyer
Getorius glanced in at the rubble, but saw no bodies. “Anyone injured has probably been taken to some open space, like the temple square.”
Smoke swirled from nearby structures where fires still smoldered. The earth tremors had struck at a late hour, after lamps and the glowing charcoal in most of the cooking stoves would have been put out or banked for the night, minimizing the danger from burning oil and coals. Even so, one of the apartment blocks on a side street was on fire, and the low water pressure in the street fountains caused by the leaking aqueduct was hampering efforts to control the flames.
After picking his way through the rubble and being roughly jostled by citizens hurrying in the opposite direction, Getorius reached the temple church with Arcadia. The portico had collapsed, sending its marble columns and ceiling tumbling down onto the stairs. Only a few hours earlier they and more than fifty citizens had been watching the actors’ drama. Arcadia murmured a prayer to Cosmas, the patron of surgeons, since she did not know enough about the headless Saint Emilianus to thank him.
Members of the civic watch were laying the dead out on the side of the square nearest the inn. A few men, whom Getorius assumed were surgeons and presbyters, were treating or comforting the wounded.
“Shall we help them?” Arcadia asked her husband.
He looked across at the Emilianus. “It seems that the inn was damaged. Since surgeons have this area covered, let’s find out if anyone was hurt at Vidimir’s.”
He led the way across the square, skirting his way through crowds of injured citizens and their helpers. Arcadia paused at the row of dead on the far edge of the square.
“Wait, Getorius.” Arcadia noticed a body that was the size of a child’s, then recognized Pumilio. “It…it’s the dwarf we saw in the play.”
“Sad. I wonder if his albino companion or any of the other actors survived?”
Getorius noticed Vidimir standing near his front entrance, staring at the damage to his inn. Smoke was curling from the first level. “I’m afraid we can’t wait to find out. Let’s see what happened to the Emilianus.” He crossed the street and called to the innkeeper. “Was anyone hurt?”
Vidimir rubbed numbly at his old scar, still visibly stunned by the damage. “Most of th…the other men were visiting Lupanarae, but one of the two Orientals was killed.”
Ironic, Getorius thought, that men fornicating in the brothel were saved. “What about the other one? Is he injured?”
He shook his head. “A child of Fortuna. He was downstairs checking on the wooden crates he brought with him. She smiled on you, too, Surgeon, when you decided to go to that temple. The ceiling of your room fell in.”
“That smoke?”
“Charcoal from the kitchen stove.”
“Had the Orientals spoken Latin to you?” Getorius asked.
“The one who survived did…but not too good. He was translating for the other.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
Vidimir looked away to the crowded square. “I just rent rooms, Surgeon.”
Getorius chose a gold tremissis from his belt purse and pressed it into the innkeeper’s grimy hand. “This will help pay for the damage to our room.”
Vidimir palmed the coin and cleared his throat. “Come to think of it, he was asking about a galley called the Cybele. When she’d arrive.”
“We came in on the Cybele.”
“Then he and his crates will be going back with you.”
“Crates? Do you know what’s in them?”
“The two big ones are heavy.” Vidimir glanced around, then leaned close. “Probably smuggling in some of that shiny fabric.”
“Silk?”
“That’s it, for some rich landowner in Ravenna. Customs officers here are more open-palmed than hawk-eyed.”
Getorius realized it made sense. He had heard from a patient that at Ravenna the usual two or three percent import duty had recently been increased to pay for Valentinian’s new walls. If the port of embarkation tariff at Olcinium was less, even with paying bribes, a profit could still be made on expensive commodities. That must be the reason Maximin shipped his pepper from this isolated port, rather than larger ones like Dyrrhachium or Salonae.
Getorius looked back at Arcadia. “Where can my wife and I stay tonight?”
“Outdoors.” Vidimir pointed to the open square. It was filling with people, mothers with whimpering children, others carrying swaddled infants, or men bringing straw mattresses, blankets, and a few salvaged possessions. “Everyone who’s stayed in Olcinium will sleep outside tonight. If that earth daemon comes back, they don’t want a wall falling in on them.”
“Our travel case?”
“Pulled it out of the rubble. I’ll get you blankets.” '
Getorius and Arcadia spent part of the night helping the injured, then, exhausted, slept for about three hours on the stone paving. By morning the fires were out, and the city prefect sent council members to assess damage and begin relief measures. The main street to the wharves was wet, but not flooded—evidently the aqueduct had been diverted or repaired. By the time the morning sun had cleared the rugged summits to the east, Getorius and Arcadia had reached the docking area.
Waves generated by the quake had moved lengthwise across the harbor, allowing most of the galleys and fishing boats at anchor to ride the crest of the swells. A few had been hit broadside and capsized, but the Cybele was undamaged, and now tied up at a dock. The air smelled of smoke, musty earth, and the raw sewage that seeped out from ruptured pipelines. Toward the sea, a sickly ochre haze of pulverized dust, slowly settling back to earth, screened the horizon.
Some damage had occurred at the north end of the warehouses, breaking or cracking many of the clay amphorae stored there, but most of the harbor buildings and merchandise in them had escaped serious harm.
At the Cybele, a gang of port slaves was carrying her cargo of wine, oil, and pepper amphorae aboard. Getorius saw the bales of wool that the galley had brought being stacked in a warehouse, and was puzzled by the fact that a customs official was ordering them sorted into two different piles.
“I wonder who gets the counterfeit coins, and what they’re really for?” he muttered to Arcadia. “A half-blind merchant could tell they aren’t genuine.”
“But someone illiterate might not.”
Her remark surprised him. “What are you getting at, Arcadia?”
“How far north are the Danube River frontier garrisons?”
“I…I’m not sure. Why?”
“Could someone be planning to pay legionaries with them? Almost all of them are barbarians.”
“Unlikely. This is Theodosius’s territory, remember?”
“To Goths, one emperor’s portrait looks like another’s,” Arcadia pointed out, “and the inscription would be so many bird tracks to them.”
“You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you? I…I’d like to be impressed with your theory, Arcadia, but a few of their officers can read, you know.”
“Exactly, Getorius. And will report back to Constantinople that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of worthless silvered ‘Valentinians’ are flooding the Eastern provinces.”
“Now I am impressed with your theory. That would destabilize the currency, the economy, of the entire area. Legionaries largely are paid in local goods. Those could be difficult to trade for other things they want, so the coins would be welcome.” Getorius thought a moment. “The bronzes would have to be silvered somewhere near here. I wonder if there’s an imperial mint close by? Perhaps in Scodra, the provincial capital.”
“If so, the governor probably would be involved.”
“Christ! This could lead to legion rebellions, or even civil war between the empires. But…no, Arcadia. Valentinian is Theodosius’s cousin and married to his daughter. Why would he foment a war with the Eastern emperor?”
“It doesn’t have to be the Augustus, does it? Someone else who would benefit from the turmoil could be responsible.”
The man was at the second gangplank, helping supervise some slaves who were trying to maneuver six wooden crates on board. Two of the boxes were flat, about a half cubit deep by two and a half cubits wide on top, and obviously heavy. The other four were smaller, encased in thick quilted jackets. All were sizes that could fit on the flanks of pack mules. The Oriental seemed especially concerned about the four padded crates, lapsing from broken Latin into excited sing-song orders in his native tongue.
“Those red angular markings on the sides must be writing in the Sinese language,” Getorius guessed. “You know, the flat crates look too heavy to contain silk, and all of them are too large to be smuggled in, as Vidimir thought. Let’s go aboard. I want to talk to Virilo about Claudia, and I’d like to get to know our new passenger.”
On deck Virilo admitted to Getorius that Diotar had brought his daughter back during the night, and she was in a cabin. With the excuse that he was too busy loading cargo and wanted to push off into the open sea, he refused to discuss Claudia further.
The Oriental directed the slaves in lashing the crates securely below deck, then came back up and went inside Virilo’s cabin.
“So much for talking to him. I wonder if Diotar and the twin came back during the night?”
“Or Kastor. I’m sure Diotar took him ashore, despite being told not to do so.” Arcadia pulled her husband toward the hatch. “Before we leave, I want you to hang a sheet or something between us and the crew. I need better privacy on the voyage back.”
With the bales of wool gone there was more space available in the hold. The slanting wooden racks built between the hull ribs that had held wine amphorae were now loaded with smaller clay jars filled with pepper. Each bore Maximin’s lead seal. Other racks on the lower deck propped up amphorae of sweet Macedonian wine or Thessalonian olive oil. The pervasive and unpleasant smell of bitumen caulking was nicely tempered now by the spicy odor of the pepper and the fruity scent of the sweetened vintage.
Getorius paid Victor and Gaius to partition off a small area for Arcadia with a spare sail. While working, the two men gossiped to him that the “Orientalis,” as they called their new passenger, would be quartered in Virilo’s cabin. The man had to be important to merit sharing the galleymaster’s berth.
After the partition was finished, Arcadia admired her new enclosed space. “Thanks for the bit of privacy, Husband,” she said, hugging Getorius. “I hope I don’t get as seasick this time.”
He squeezed her closer. “Not private enough, though,” he whispered. “We haven’t made love in…in half a month.”
Arcadia laughed and pushed him away. “You satyr. We’ll be home shortly.” She sat down on her cot. “Seriously, Getorius, I’m looking forward to sea air clearing my mind of what we saw in that horrible temple.”
“And what the quake did to Olcinium. When we left, didn’t I foolishly say something about this being a vacation?”
“What causes those tremors, Getorius?”
“Aristotle thought that underground hot air and gases trying to escape to the earth’s surface were responsible.”
“I didn’t notice any hot springs near that temple. Which reminds me. I need a bath!”
“You smell good to me, Cara.”
“Another of your Celtic lies, but thanks anyway. And I mean in a bathtub, so I can relax.”
“It will still be a few days before you can do that. I’d suggest a swim, but the earthquake muddied the harbor and brought up Neptune-knows-what from the bottom. Did you see that slime floating on the surface?”
She puckered her nose. “I did, and it smelled as bad as it looked.” Arcadia thought of the arrowhead scars on the galley’s hull and kitchen. “Hopefully, we won’t have to worry about those pirates on the return voyage.”
Virilo told his crew that he wanted to reach open sea before further earth tremors endangered the galley in the enclosed harbor. Also, the strong summer Etesians soon would blow from the north. Unless other winds shifted in from the southwest, the return voyage would take longer, even though Cybele would pick up the Ionian Current that flowed north through the strait between Italy’s eastern tip and the Greek mainland.
By early afternoon, the last of the cargo, food, and freshwater casks had been secured. Virilo ordered his galley rowed out past the breakwater, into the rolling swells of the Adriatic.
A mile offshore, Sigeric easily found the sea current by following a stream of mud and seaweed that the quake had shaken loose. No dolphins came to crisscross the bow after he steered the Cybele into a trail of yellow-gray water that soiled the azure sea around it—the sea creatures had fled to cleaner haunts.
The breeze held from the northwest, forcing the crew to tack against the wind. Once the galley began to pitch into the swells Arcadia felt nauseous again, but was grateful that she would at least be able to be sick in relative privacy.
The next morning Getorius was on deck, watching the diminishing trail of mud and floating weeds in the sea, when the door to Virilo’s cabin was pushed open. The Oriental lurched out to the rail and faced the wind. He looked pale as he hung his head out over the side, but he did not vomit. Getorius waited awhile, then decided to open a conversation. “Not much you can do, it’s the motion.” He demonstrated with a rocking movement of his hand and wondered if the man had understood.
He looked up and replied in a weak voice, “I take clovus.”
“Clove oil? Good.”
Since being appointed to the palace, Getorius had gained access to the expensive spice that was shaped like miniature griffin feet. He had prescribed it to Galla Placidia for an upset stomach. If the man had come from the east, it was logical he would have the remedy.
The Oriental’s face was similar to that of a Hun’s, yet smaller-boned and with more delicate features.
“My name is Getorius Asterius,” he said, extending his hand.
“As-t’us?” The man looked at the open palm. Westerners grasped each other’s hand or forearm when they met, but he only bowed slightly. “Greetings…As-t’us. I Zhang Chen.”
“Chen. Good, we can communicate. Where are you from, Chen?”
Chen glanced at the sun and pointed to the east.
“From Sina?”
“As you in West call my home.”
“Yes, Rome has trade routes there. You have another name for your country?”
“Sina is good name, As-t’us.”
Getorius wanted to correct his pronunciation, but decided not to confuse Chen. “Are you staying in Ravenna?”
“Yes, Rav’enn. Where Val-tan is emperor god.”
“Val-tan? Ah, Valentinian.” Getorius chuckled. “But the Augustus isn’t exactly a god. He—”
Getorius heard another cabin door open and turned to see Virilo step out. The galleymaster glanced at him and Chen, then started toward the bow.
“Excuse me, Chen…” Getorius caught up with Virilo. “How is Claudia today?”
“She’s well. Needs to be home.”
“Can I do anything for her?”
“Nothing, Surgeon.”
“Call me if she has another attack.”
Virilo grunted and brushed past to inspect the ram winch. When Getorius turned back, Zhang Chen was no longer standing at the rail.
That evening the sea rose in broad swells that rolled in from the south, and the wind smelled of rain. Sigeric predicted a storm later that night.
Getorius ate a little of the tuna that Maranatha cooked for supper, then went below. The long twilight showing through the open hatch gave a soft glow to the hold.
“Cara, how are you feeling?” he asked his wife. “Is that head gash bothering you?”
“No, and I’m getting a little more used to the galley’s motion.”
“Perhaps I can get some clove oil from Chen.”
“Chen is the Oriental’s name?” At Getorius’s
nod, she asked, “Did he tell you what was in his crates?”
“I didn’t ask him.”
“You thought they looked too heavy to contain silk cloth.”
“Yes, but I have no idea what could be inside. It must be the extra cargo Virilo said he was picking up for Senator Maximin.”
“Getorius, are you worried about going back to Ravenna?”
“A little. After what happened last December I’m not looking forward to Leudovald’s questions. Back then it would have been my word against those deacons who accused me of dissecting a body, which would have been buried before the trial. My scalpel would be presented as evidence against me. Court cases are usually won by the best orators, and I didn’t know any lawyers.”
“We couldn’t have stayed in Olcinium.”
“I know.” He lay down on his cot and laid a forearm over his eyes. “I just wanted to get away when I heard that Virilo had been taken in for questioning.”
Getorius was dozing, and Arcadia had closed her eyes, when the galley gave a sudden lurch. She heard a loud crack, then a softer sound, like a rain of tiny pebbles falling onto the deck. The smell of pepper intensified.
Arcadia sat up and looked toward the storage rack nearest her, from where the sound seemed to be coming. Peppercorns dribbled out of a triangular hole in the body of one of the clay jars. She looked at her husband. He seemed to be fast asleep.
“Getorius,” she called out, “an amphora broke. Pepper is spilling out all over the decking.”
“Wha…? Oh.” He got up and went with her to look. “It must have cracked in the quake and the dock workers didn’t notice.”
“Or didn’t want to be blamed.” She cupped her hands under the flow and tried to keep her balance on the swaying deck. “What can we catch these in?”
“One of the cook’s bowls?” He looked around. “Use one of our towels to stopper the hole while I get one.”
