Death at Pergamum

by Albert Noyer

  By the third hour, Nikephoros signaled the harbormaster that his crew had secured the mainmast and artemon sails. The official's pennant cleared Hermes to be rowed out of the harbor. Several oars still were retracted; these oarsmen had not returned, were caught up in the riot, perhaps arrested, injured, or even killed.

  As the galley moved away from her berth toward the harbor entrance, Arcadia came to lean on the rail with her husband to watch the wharf wreckage recede. "How tragic. I've worried that such rioting might take place at Ravenna."

  "That could happen now that our African grain supply is lost to the Vandals."

  "I'm sorry we weren't able to see the imperial family. Galla Placida had given us gifts and a letter for Emperor Theodosius."

  Getorius eased an arm around Arcadia's waist. "It isn't safe now, cara. We'll have to wait until we return and the situation improves."

  "Where's that surgeon?" Basina demanded as she squeezed out of her cabin. Her husband followed without Hermias. "There he is! You! Will I get sick from being around these horrible people? Just looking at them makes me want to vomit."

  Arcadia murmured that she was going to look in on Droseria and slipped away.

  "Domina, I would stay away from them if I were you," Getorius suggested to Basina, yet more out of sympathy for the ill than of any danger to the woman.

  "I intend to." She looked around. "Where's that nasty builder? I haven't seen him."

  "Spurius Fuscus? You were in your cabin when he was murdered last night."

  "Dead? Oh. Well, I didn't like him anyway. He was always complaining about something or other, wasn't he, Bobo?" Flavius glanced away without answering. "I'm hungry, so are we getting anything to eat? Where's that Greek guide?"

  "Herakles was talking with the deacon a moment ago."

  "Well, tell him I'm starving. Come on, Bobo. Hermias should have finished mixing my morning tonic."

  Getorius shook his head at the woman's self-absorption, comparing her to the two widows who had survived terrifying sieges of Rome in which their husbands died. I doubt if Basina ever has had a truly hurtful experience. Her father and Flavius have pampered the woman all her life.

  Once outside the harbor jetties, Hermes entered seas swelling in from the northwest. A strong breeze from that direction abruptly billowed out the two sails. The galley lurched forward, dipping into the waves and flinging cold spray against the salt-encrusted screens at the prow.

  Herakles returned with a half smile on his face as he slipped coins into his belt purse.

  Getorius surmised that he had been selling kannabis to patients and half agreed with him for the plant's calming effects. "What's our course?" he asked the guide.

  "South across the Propontis, Asterios, making good time with the wind and current. We spend a night at an island, Prokonnesos. Tomorrow we enter the Hellespont and reach Abydos by the seventh hour. Nearby, I have new adventure for you. We stay the night at Novum Ilium."

  "Illium, the site of ancient Troy? Wonderful! My tutor had me memorize passages from Homer, too many, really, yet I never dreamed I'd actually visit the place."

  "Kalos, you are pleased." Herakles glanced back at a group of passengers looking his way from the end of the cabins. "Asterios, word you are a physician has spread among the ill as quickly as fire destroyed Serapis. I warned some would wish to see you."

  "I haven't brought many medicines, only what is in my traveling case."

  "Then, you might give them a dose of hope?" Herakles proposed without sarcasm.

  Getorius half-dreadeded the task ahead, but agreed. "Benches at the prow are sheltered from the wind, so bring patients there. Could you get my wife? She's in the widows' cabin."

  "Kalos."

  When Arcadia returned, Getorius was examining the neck glands of a frightened young girl, who was stripped to a loincloth. Her mother beat her breast as she wailed a hysterical lament in an Anatolian dialect.

  "Ghias sas. Hello," Arcadia said, smiling at the girl and noticing a Saint Blasius scapular wrapped tightly around her neck. "What's wrong with her, Getorius?"

  "Glands are swollen, a fever. There's a yellow phlegm nasal discharge and a grayish membrane on her throat. She'll have the croup by nightfall."

  "Diphthera?"

  Getorius agreed with her diagnosis. "Yes, and the girl must be isolated in a cabin." He glanced around. "Where is our guide now? I don't understand the mother, and she won't know what I'm saying about her daughter."

  "I'll put the girl's tunic back on her. Onoma, koritsi?" Arcadia asked, slipping a worn garment over the youngster's head. "What is your name, girl?"

  "Kiki," she replied in a hoarse whisper.

  "Kiki, erhome. Come with me and your mother too. I'll have my, my helper bring a mint drink to soothe your throat."

  While Arcadia went to search for an empty cabin, Getorius saw a man hobble toward him on crutches. The lower part of one leg was wrapped in dirty bandages. Even at a distance, the smell of the limb's black bile imbalance nauseated him. The flesh will be black like on that Gothic fisherman's hand I treated at Ravenna.

  The man slumped down heavily on the bench and began to loosen the bandage.

  "Sir," Getorius told him, "I've no need to see your leg. It's certain you'll need amputation above the dead tissue. Haven't you seen a surgeon?"

  "Gaingraina, he said it was, but I want you as another witness."

  "Witness to what?"

  As the man continued to unwind the filthy cloth, he boasted, "Holy Damianos and Apollonios of Pergamum will cure my leg at the Asklepion."

  Getorius muttered, "Apollonios again. I can't wait to meet the great man." This patient may die before reaching Pergamum, but Herakles suggested that I dispense hope. "So you expect a healing miracle there?"

  "Holy Damianos once replaced a man's diseased leg with that of an Ethiopian's. That was a miracle."

  His limb was unwrapped now, exposing blackened flesh. Halfway up the calf a visible line separated dead from healthy tissue. An amputation just below the knee is all that might save the man's life. "Sir, what is your name?"

  "Damianos."

  "The same as the saint's?"

  His grin exposed yellow-stained teeth. "See what I mean?

  "How did this happen, Damianos?"

  "Stepped on a rusty spike in a plank...went half through my foot. Probably should have seen a physician sooner, but had to stay at work."

  "An amputation is all that will save your life."

  Damianos's smile slid into an angry question. "You don't believe in miracles, Surgeon? You take a good look at my leg, then after it's cured tell me you don't." He winced in pain as he pulled himself up on a crutch, and left the pus-soaked wrapping on the bench.

  Getorius motioned the next person away, picked up the putrid binding, and walked to the railing. After throwing the infected cloth over the side, he turned his face to let the cold wind flush away a feeling of nausea. Hope, faith, miracles. That's what Herakles was talking about, but Damianos and even the girl may not live another two days. I'm willing to believe in the power of the mind, even of prayer, yet there are instances where a disease has progressed too far to be cured. Hippocrates cites case after case.

  Disturbed by the first two of what probably were many more such hopeless cases, Getorius was barely aware of his wife calling his name before turning to her.

  Arcadia asked, "What are you brooding about? I called you three times."

  "Sorry, what's wrong?"

  "It's Droseria. She's worse and I can't think of what to do. Could you come?"

  Maria and Melodia were in their small cabin with the sick woman. After Getorius flipped back a curtain over the single window to let in more light, Droseria shielded her eyes from the sudden glare.

  "Sorry, Domina," he apologized. "Arcadia, these ladies shouldn't be sharing a cabin. Can you find another one for Droseria?"

  "I'll ask Herakles."

  "Fine. I'll examine her while all of you go look for him."

>   Droseria lay on one of the benches, propped up by luggage. After a cough interrupted her labored breathing, she spit up blood. Getorius recalled severe cases of lung imbalances at Ravenna. "Domina, how long have you had these symptoms?"

  "I fell sick as a girl at Deultum on the Euxine Sea."

  "A marshy locale? Cold and damp?"

  Droseria nodded. "Two small rivers emptied into lakes near the sea. I loved playing there."

  "Domina, you breathed in unhealthy miasmas, but go on."

  "After Father moved to Constantinople, I felt better, but about fifteen years ago I caught a chill. I lost weight, almost died. The coughing started again, and then bloody sputum. A year ago my left knee began to hurt, and then a lesion broke out on my face. Others came on my leg."

  "Surely, you consult physicians at Constantinople?"

  Droseria winced as she pulled herself upright." They prescribe diet and rest, say they can do nothing more." A half-smile of resignation creased her mouth. "Oh, I know I'm going to die on this journey, Surgeon, but not before I see where my church at Pergamum will be built. I'll eternally rest in its cemetery."

  "You don't have a husband or family?"

  "I never married. Father did well as an importer of Rus furs and left me a comfortable income." Droseria shifted position to massage her knee. "Family? Surgeon, the Crucified One, Aelia Pulcheria, and the poor are my family."

  Arcadia returned to tell the sick woman that Herakles had found her a cabin near the prow. Brisios would move her luggage, then help her walk there.

  "I thank you, young woman."

  "Could you eat something? The Sisters are starting to serve breakfast."

  Droseria shook her head, "No, but I'd like to sleep a bit. We were up so early."

  Getorius stood to leave. "You must take nourishment, so I'll see if my wife can bring broth. I'll ask Herakles to find white lead ointment for your lesion."

  "My thanks, Surgeon, but don't be concerned about me. I've found my peace."

  Out on deck, Getorius remarked, "An amazing woman. Droseria accepts that she'll not see Constantinople again, and she's perfectly calm about her death."

  "Saint Paul remarked about the peace of Christ. Droseria seems to have found it." Arcadia handed her husband half a flatbread and piece of hard goat cheese. "Herakles brought these. Come around out of the wind and eat."

  "And you? Where's your food?"

  "Maybe later, I'm starting to feel nauseous again. What of Droseria's illness?"

  "Hippocrates called her disease 'Consumption.' I've seen cases of it at Ravenna, but none this advanced. The ulcers and inflamed knee joint."

  "She could die?"

  He nodded. "And depending on the difficulty of this voyage, perhaps even before we reach Pergamum."

  "Getorius, I'm going to stay with her."

  He disagreed with her proposal. "To do what, Arcadia?"

  "Help her eat," she replied defiantly, "and do whatever she needs."

  "Droseria can pay for the best this galley can offer."

  Arcadia turned away and walked around the cabin. Getorius wanted to pull her back, ask what had upset her in Pulcheria's letter, yet thought it best to let his wife have her way at this time

  * * *

  Hermes had been at sea about an hour, heading toward a limitless western horizon. No land was visible, not even the island that Herakles had mentioned as their destination. While the ill were being served a meal of bread, cheese, almonds, and fruit, the galley's pitching increased. Those too seasick to reach the latrine, chamber pots, or side rails vomited on their clothes, stretcher coverings, and deck boards. The sight and smell triggered a similar reaction in Arcadia, who had left Droseria to help Brisios.

  Getorius held her head over the railing and limited his urge to vomit to only a few dry heaves. He watched Brisios help the Sisters clean up. Our slave has been such a help on this trip. Without Brisios we might still be in Herakleia, our luggage stolen, or injured in that riot.

  Arcadia went to lie down on a bench with her head on her husband's lap. She was soon asleep.

  There would be no midday break for the oarsmen. They ate food brought aboard, but a late-season favoring Etesian wind, and the Propontis current, allowed the men periodic short rests without compromising the galley's speed.

  Land surrounding the inland sea had faded from sight. Getorius recalled his spring voyage on the Cybele, across the Adriatic to Olcinium. This time there were no pirate decoy galleys, no sadistic masters of warships to harass Hermes. Only an occasional stubby merchantman passed, hauling slabs and blocks of dazzling white marble lashed to its deck.

  At about the eighth hour, a rise of land appeared, misty on the horizon, backed by a dark-gray sky. Getorius surmised that it was Prokonnesos, but a rain squall would hit well before they arrived at the island. He was glad when Arcadia stirred and sat up; his leg had gotten numb.

  "You were asleep quite a while," he said, brushing her hair back. "Do you feel a little better?"

  She rubbed her eyes. "I think so."

  "Good. We'll see rain shortly, but I don't know what people on the deck are going to do for shelter."

  "Can't Herakles get them into cabins? The galley isn't even at half-capacity."

  "The deacon assigned cabins only to those who were the most ill."

  Arcadia stood up to smooth wrinkles from her tunic. "I'll find him and ask."

  "Fine, I'll go with you."

  "No, stay here, I should look in on Droseria too."

  Getorius watched her walk away. Droseria now occupies her entire mind, yet

  what could she and Pulcheria have discussed that's caused this coolness toward me?

  * * *

  Some of the pilgrims had been brought into cabins by the time the first cold raindrops spattered on Hermes's deck planks. Nikephoros ordered the mainsail dropped before the wind could reverse its billowing and damage the linen. A pelting rain put out stove fires at the cooking pit. Luggage on the roof storage area was soaked as water ran off the cabin top in wind-driven rivulets. To escape the brunt of the oncoming rain, Getorius brought outdoor patients to stand under an awning in the shelter of the stern cabin wall.

  His thoughts were on Arcadia's odd behavior when Herakles appeared, water dripping into his eyes from soaked hair. "There you are, Asterios. It seems Poseidon must have his sport with us."

  "What happens at Prokonnesos? I assume there's a port on the island?"

  "Marmor." Herakles wiped his eyebrows. "I will be honest, Asterios, the island is a marble quarry. Galleys follow the coast and put in at Cyzicos, but Nikephoros chose a shorter route to Pergamum because of the ill. They stay on board, but you and the others will sleep at the villa of my friend."

  "Fine, Brisios can get our luggage ready."

  * * *

  The squall had passed when Hermes arrived at Marmor; all that remained of twilight was a wide streak of pale orange across the western horizon. Despite the efforts of the oarsmen, the contrary winds had slowed the galley's docking by two hours. The storm also brought cold weather in its wake.

  On shore, a short distance from the sea, low-lying clouds wreathed an oblong mountain spine that sloped upward and ran inland. Gray-white water gushed down the steep streets of the port, where houses rose away from the wharves. Barges and galleys being loaded with blocks of unworked marble lined the docks. An arched drain opening spewed out sewage into the harbor, a grayish mixture of white marble dust and dark soil. The only relief in the dreary scene was warm light coming from a row of shops that faced the harbor's waterfront street.

  When Getorius went to find Arcadia and tell her they would disembark shortly, she was in Droseria's cabin, sponging the woman's fevered face. He told his wife, "We'll be docking and Herakles found us a place for the night. I asked Brisios to take down our bags."

  "What about Droseria? Where will she sleep?"

  "Pilgrims remain aboard the galley. Besides, I wouldn't move her."

  "Then I want to stay h
ere with her," Arcadia said, rinsing out the cloth to avoid looking at him.

  Getorius replied as evenly as he could, "Come outside a moment, please." After they were on deck, he could not entirely conceal his irritation. "Arcadia, I told you the woman has consumption. There's nothing a physician can do except prescribe diet and rest, just as hers did."

  "Just the same, I want to stay the night with her."

  Getorius reddened. "And I'm ordering you not to."

  Arcadia's green eyes flashed defiance as she looked up at him. "Ordering me?"

  "Yes, as your mentor and your husband."

  "You don't own me, Getorius! Oh, very well!" She sobbed, turned from him, and flounced to where Brisios waited with the luggage.

  Malalas, a friend of Herakles, owned the quarry and lived a short distance outside the town, in a rambling villa on a cliff overlooking the sea. The man was away, but slaves knew the guide and settled Maria and Melodia in a room off the garden. The Bobos were housed nearby. Tranquillus lodged next to Getorius and Arcadia in rooms on the opposite side of an atrium. Brisios and Hermias were given cots in the slave quarters. Since their master was absent and visitors not expected, furnace slaves had not kindled a fire to heat water for the bathhouse.

  Despite the waxed leather traveling bags, the upper layer of Arcadia's clothing was wet. She took out her damp cape in silence and put it on to eat supper. Getorius hung some of her clothes in the room's wardrobe.

  Herakles took his clients to a tavern two blocks from the waterfront. The eatery was away from boisterous quarry slaves and their guards, who had sat drinking wine in harbor-side taverns ever since rain had stopped their work.

  At supper the widows and Tranquillus quietly discussed the violent death of Fuscus and the ill persons who had come aboard that morning. Arcadia picked at her food without joining in the conversations. Basina complained loudly about the uphill walk to the villa, the tavern's food, its wine, the service, foul weather, and, correctly, that everything tasted gritty with marble dust.