[Getorius and Arcadia 01] - The Secundus Papyrus

by Albert Noyer

  “A quarter million solidi? Unbelievable.” Including fish and other foodstuffs that Getorius receives as payment, he barely earns one hundred solidi a year. That’s about five times what a skilled artisan makes, but Senator Maximin probably spends that much on wine every week.

  Arcadia led the way along the sidewalk of the busy roadway, past three blocks of apartments and shops which gave way to the wooden palisade of the garrison camp that Getorius had criticized. It was true that the men were largely Goths. Roman field armies were in Gaul, under Flavius Aetius, fighting a revolt and trying to resolve differences between local tribes. The barbarians served under their own officers and had proven to be generally loyal, despite fears of rebellion—never far from a Roman official’s mind.

  At the new Laurence Gate, workers were completing the south wall by extending it to the sea. A short distance beyond the entrance, the burial vaults and monuments of the old pagan cemetery began to line the roadway. Many of the stones were toppled, or inundated by the encroaching marshes that surrounded Ravenna.

  At the first cluster of tombs, on high ground, Veneranda brushed snow off weathered stones until she uncovered a sculpted figure dressed in an appropriate garment. The woman, who looked to be about Arcadia’s age, wore a flowing tunic that had sleeves reaching to her elbow. It was belted into folds beneath her breasts, and more loosely at the waist. A rectangular palla, a shawl like the ones Arcadia already owned, covered the woman’s head and wrapped around her throat.

  “Veneranda, I like it,” Arcadia said. “Will it be difficult to make?”

  “A simple design, Domina. I can have a first fitting in two days.”

  “Wonderful. Now all I need to find is a hair style of the period.”

  Since Getorius had been brought to Ravenna as an infant, he had no busts of ancestors, male or female, in his house. Arcadia’s father, Petronius Valerianus, was at his villa near Rome for the winter, but she could still go to his house near the Theodosius Gate, to look at portrait sculptures of the women who had married or been born into the family over many generations. One of them was bound to have a hairdo from the republican era.

  Only a small staff was retained in winter and the rooms were cold. Arcadia wandered along the garden portico, looking for an ancestral figure with a simple style that would not compete with the way the Gothic Queen might arrange her hair.

  She found one at the beginning of the collection. For her stone portrait the unnamed woman had brushed her hair to each side, then woven small braids in the back. A thicker, central plait ran from her forehead, back over the top of the head, and down the back. It was a Germanic style that Arcadia surmised was a fashion novelty at the time. She decided to bring Silvia on the morning of the dinner, and let her work from the statue.

  Even though she felt chilled, Arcadia lingered among the portraits, realizing again how fortunate she was that Getorius had agreed to let her study medicine with him. Like Archdeacon Renatus, most men assumed that women only wanted to marry and bear children, therefore few wives had the option of entering a profession. They might supervise a small industry from their homes, such as weaving, but were usually restricted to running the household, while their husbands were out conducting business affairs.

  That had not been enough for Arcadia. Her mother had died giving birth to her. While her father had showed no outward resentment, he had left his daughter’s upbringing to servants and a governess. Their benign neglect had made Arcadia independent—to some people, irritatingly rebellious—when it came to what was expected of a young Roman woman.

  Being in her father’s house brought back memories. As a child Arcadia had loved animals, always hoping to find an injured one that she could nurse back to health. She recalled once chasing away a cat that was toying with a young sparrow it had caught. The terrorized bird had a raw wound in its breast, and she had sponged it with olive oil in the hope that the injury would heal. But the sparrow had died in Arcadia’s small, cupped hands, its beak open in a gasp as the fright-filled black eyes fluttered shut. She had buried it in the garden, inside her favorite olivewood box.

  At age eleven Arcadia had watched from behind a drape while an aunt died in the agony of childbirth. Despite lavish oiling of the birth canal, midwives had been unable to extract the baby. Desperate, one of the women had summoned the physician Antioches. He had been forced to use iron hooks to remove the child, which had killed it, and afterward he had been unable to save the mother from hemorrhaging to death. Arcadia understood more of what had happened now. Soranus’ book detailed the awful procedure that back then had sent her retching into a garden fountain.

  When Arcadia was fifteen, her favorite uncle Gaius contracted a fever from unhealthy vapors rising out of the marshes. This time Nicias had come from the palace to treat him, and brought a handsome, dark-haired apprentice whom he was training. Getorius was nineteen. He had barely noticed Arcadia at first, but she had decided he was the man she would marry. Furthermore, Getorius would train her to become a medica, just as Nicias was preparing him to heal people, not animals.

  Gaius took almost three weeks to recover. Getorius had come every evening to monitor his condition. On one of the nights he showed Arcadia a similar case of a man named Herophon, written up by Hippocrates in a study of epidemics. The patient’s fever had broken on the seventeenth day, as had Gaius’. By then Getorius was feverishly in love with Arcadia. Four years later they were married, and he agreed to train her in his clinic.

  Marriage may now be considered a holy symbol of the union of Christ and his people, but most of the restrictions on women remained. It was one of the areas where the Church challenged social tradition, yet even so, if Getorius mistreated her, it would be difficult for Arcadia to divorce him. She would have to accuse him either of murder, sorcery, or destroying tombs. Arcadia chuckled at the ridiculous thought.

  Bishop Chrysologos was also concerned about the gender inequities in marriage, and had specified penances for men who breached their vow of fidelity. If Getorius abandoned her he could not be reconciled to the Sacraments for seven years. Should she catch him in an adulterous liaison with a married woman, it would take fifteen years before the bishop accepted him back. Fornication, on the other hand, merited only four years for his reconciliation.

  Arcadia was sure that Getorius was faithful to her. After a final look at the sculpted hairstyle, she returned to her villa.

  On the day before the dinner, Veneranda was making adjustments to the drape of Arcadia’s stole when Childibert announced that Surrus Renatus had arrived to see Getorius.

  “The Surgeon is in his office. Take the Archdeacon there,” she ordered, puzzled at the unexpected visit. “Have Silvia bring mulled wine and cakes. I’ll be along in a moment.”

  When Renatus was shown in, Getorius was staring at a mass of fresh pig liver he was dissecting. He wiped his hands on a linen towel to greet the churchman.

  “Archdeacon, a pleasure to see you. Not a recurrence of your fever?”

  “No, I’m quite well.” Renatus hosted a fleshy face under a scalp that was almost bald. Thin strands of hair were brushed to each side, to encourage them to merge with a thicker fringe at his ears. Sparse brows were set in a horizontal line, above small hazel eyes. A bulbous nose off set his thin line of mouth. “Quite well,” he repeated.

  “Then how may I be of service?”

  “I, ah, stopped by to ask you about something. Someone, that is.”

  Getorius thought he seemed nervous. “If I can help—”

  “Welcome, Archdeacon.” Arcadia came in and extended her hand. “I saw your name on the Empress Mother’s dinner invitation at Lauretum Palace.”

  “She indeed accorded me the honor, Domina Asteria.”

  “We’ve been having our clothes made for the occasion. What did a deacon wear during the Republic?”

  With an indulgent smile, Renatus replied, “I’m afraid, Domina, that the Church was born too late to be part of those times.”

  “
Of course, how silly of me to forget that Augustus Caesar was emperor at the time of Christ’s birth.” Arcadia indicated a wicker chair. “Please, Archdeacon, sit down.”

  Renatus sat and smoothed his long tunic over his knees. “I…I’ll wear a dalmatic much like the one I have on now. Perhaps of slightly finer wool, in honor of the occasion. My ministry is to spend the Church’s money on the poor, not myself.”

  Commendable, Arcadia thought, eyeing his white garment. A wide maroon stripe angled from the right side to mid-body, identifying him as a deacon, one church office below that of presbyter. She surmised that the gold thread edging the stripe identified his rank as Archdeacon’s and as supervisor of the funds he had mentioned. His calfskin boots were wet. Renatus had evidently walked to the house and not been carried in a chair litter.

  Silvia came in with the wine and cakes. The archdeacon took one of the sweets with a delicate hand motion, but paused to look over at the pig liver on the desk.

  “What is that organ?” he asked, his brow puckered in disgust. “It seems more fitting for a butcher’s stall than a surgeon’s office.”

  “Not at all, Archdeacon,” Getorius told him. “This animal liver may help me understand an illness in a human patient.”

  “Surely not,” Renatus scoffed. “God created animals according to their own kind. Only man is made in His likeness.”

  “My studies—not only mine, but those of Hippocrates, Herophilus, Galen, and even Aristotle—all show a connection between species,” Getorius explained. “That liver is from a pig, but the location in its body is similar to that in a dog or cat. The function must be the same in all of them.”

  “But hardly so in someone made in God’s image,” Renatus insisted.

  “All the more reason for the Bishop to allow dissection. Physicians could see what diseased organs look like.”

  “Disease is a punishment for one’s transgressions,” Renatus countered. “A cure can come from the laying on of a presbyter’s consecrated hands, or the relic of holy persons.”

  “That’s nonsense, Archdeacon.”

  Renatus reddened at being contradicted. “I’ve been told that snips of hair from a martyr’s head, drunk in a cup of water, is an effective purgative to cast out evil.”

  “Another of those superstitions—”

  “Getorius, don’t bore us with your work,” Arcadia interposed, to avoid an argument. “I’m sure the Archdeacon has another reason for his visit.”

  “Yes.” Renatus settled back and took a sip of wine, seemingly relieved at her intervention. “Surgeon, I….ah…heard that you recently were sent to examine the body of a Hibernian monk who died.”

  “Behan?”

  “That’s the name. You brought his belongings here, did you not?”

  “We didn’t want bandits to make off with them,” Arcadia said quickly.

  “Of course, my child.” Renatus reached over to pat her hand. “I’m not implying anything, but the monk’s worldly goods are the property of Mother Church.”

  “Don’t they belong to his Order?” Getorius asked, still annoyed over the churchman’s nonsense about curing disease. “Someone from his abbey is coming to claim the body and arrange a funeral.”

  “Quite. How did the unfortunate man die?”

  “Behan evidently drowned while in a penitential trance.”

  “In the Holy Spirit, then.” Renatus finished the cake, took a sip of wine, and cleared his throat. “Did he…did this Behan have a ring on one of his fingers?”

  “A ring?”

  “Perhaps a signet of his Order?”

  “No. I didn’t notice a ring.”

  “There was a white circle around a finger,” Arcadia said, “as if he had worn a ring. I didn’t think to mention it at the time.”

  Renatus’ straight brows rose in surprise. “You were there, Domina?”

  “She insisted on going over my objections,” Getorius answered for Arcadia. “My wife trains with me.”

  “I’d forgotten.” Renatus’ curt tone betrayed his disapproval. “Surgeon, what did you bring back that belonged to the monk?”

  “The only things of value were his writing desk and clothes chest.”

  “Any books? Surely, they would be valuable.”

  “A Latin testament. The rules of his Order…a few pamphlets against heresies.”

  “Tell the Archdeacon about the manuscripts on Behan’s desk,” Arcadia said. “As a churchman he might have some idea about what they mean.”

  Getorius gave her a sidewise glance—he had not intended to mention the documents.

  Renatus put down his wine cup and leaned forward. “Manuscripts? What manuscripts?”

  “Three,” Getorius admitted. “Two were written in Celtic. According to Theokritos, they were only word games to pass the time.”

  “The librarian has seen these?”

  “I asked him to translate them. I was curious.”

  “As was Eve in the Garden,” Renatus reminded him. “I suspect Theokritos has been seduced by the Gnostic heresy, I’ve seen that Abraxas amulet he wears.” Renatus suddenly stood up and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “These manuscripts. Nothing of importance, you say?”

  “Evidently not,” Getorius replied, unsure of the penance for lying to a churchman.

  “Still, Bishop Chrysologos wishes Behan’s things brought to the episcopal residence until he hears from his abbot. I’ll send servants tomorrow to pick everything up.”

  “Fine, Archdeacon.” Getorius stood up to guide him out.

  Renatus paused at the door and asked as an afterthought, “Was there…ah…an animal sharing the monk’s cell?”

  “Animal?” Getorius chuckled. “Why would he have a pet?”

  “Monks are reported to communicate with God though such creatures. It’s often a wild creature…a fox or raven. Noah of course first sent a raven to see if the floodwaters had subsided. Behan kept a rooster, perhaps?”

  “I didn’t notice one, but the Augustus was there the day before. He and his guards discovered the body.”

  “Valentinian brought his two Huns with him?”

  “They were hunting. I asked Optila to look around, but we didn’t come back to Ravenna with any animals.” Getorius took Renatus by the elbow, wondering why the man was so interested in a rooster. “Let me show you out, Archdeacon.”

  After her husband returned, Arcadia asked, “Why would Renatus come with questions about an obscure monk? Especially when he already seemed to know a lot about him.”

  “Renatus did seem agitated when he heard about the two manuscripts, but forgot to ask about the third, the Latin one. Come to think of it, he ended his questions abruptly.”

  “And what was that about a ring? And a cockerel?”

  “I don’t know.” Getorius sat down again and took a gulp of wine. “Perhaps he just came to tell us about storing Behan’s furniture and was curious about the death.”

  “Didn’t you think you heard a rooster outside the hut…and asked Optila to look for it?”

  “Arcadia, I could have been mistaken.”

  “You showed me the drawing of a cockerel on the Latin manuscript,” she reminded him, “and now one is figuring in this mystery again.”

  “A symbol. You think that’s important?”

  “Remember when Sigisvult was explaining about symbols to us? He said a cock stands for watchfulness, vigilance.”

  “So?”

  “So? Husband, if I recall the story of Peter’s denial of Christ, the bird also stands for betrayal.”

  “In this case, betrayal of whom?” Getorius asked bluntly. His head was beginning to ache, the first sign of a possible hot-cold humor imbalance.

  “You’re the one who’s been reading the manuscripts. You and that Feletheus.”

  “He agrees that the triad riddles are word exercises, but not about the meaning of the prophecy verses.”

  “With all the sick who have come into the clinic lately, I’ve forgotten,” Arc
adia admitted. “What is this alleged prophecy about?”

  “That some momentous event will happen soon. The key is evidently in the writings of the Apostle John.”

  Arcadia took a sip of lukewarm wine, thought a moment, and then put down the cup.

  “Getorius, a prophecy needs a prophet. That could have been Behan, but because he accidentally drowned he wasn’t able to announce…proclaim it.”

  “That might explain why Renatus came,” Getorius speculated. “He could have been looking for some kind of information he didn’t have because of Behan’s accident.”

  Or murder, Arcadia thought. “You think the Archdeacon is involved in…in whatever’s going on?”

  “Behan’s death might have upset some plan.” Getorius rubbed his temples. “I’m getting a headache with all this, and being invited to the Gothic Queen’s dinner isn’t helping.”

  “Let me…” Arcadia massaged his forehead. Her hand was cool and he held it there until she pulled away. “I’ll get you a dose of spirea. As for the Gothic Queen, I prophesy that she’ll make you palace surgeon yet.”

  It was raining when Archdeacon Renatus left the clinic. To avoid spoiling his shoes and tunic, he hailed a pair of carriers with a covered litter chair, for the distance back to the bishop’s residence. At the Via Honorius he covered his mouth and nose at the smell of sewage coming into the conveyance on the wet air.

  Renatus felt as gloomy as the buildings of Ravenna that lay drab and colorless under a gray November sky. He did not like mysteries. Events should be as well ordered as his account ledger, which recorded how donations to the poor were received and spent. Now, not only was something hidden going on, but whatever it was may have taken a wrong turn.

  Renatus remembered Behan coming to see him in October, the month before his death. The ragged monk had implied that he would soon reveal a prophecy to Bishop Chrysologos about an event of earthshaking importance. It would take place in the near future, and affect the twin Roman empires. Behan had hinted that Renatus, as an archdeacon, would have a role in what was to follow.

  He had wondered if the monk’s Order was about to make an enormous bequest to the Ravenna diocese, then decided that was ridiculous. Behan was dirty, like the poor fed by deacons, and his stained robe smelled of sweat and wood smoke. The monk spoke Latin with a strong Celtic accent, yet he was clearly well educated. Before leaving, he had asked for sealing wax. After he had pressed his signet ring into the soft blue lump, the image of a rooster was imprinted. This was the prophetic sign, Behan said, and the bishop, his presbyters, and deacons must be ready to recognize and respond to it.