[Getorius and Arcadia 01] - The Secundus Papyrus

by Albert Noyer

  The man’s as slick as his hair oil, Arcadia thought, and yet the prospect of a few shamelessly luxurious days was appealing. She would also have unencumbered time to think of ways to help defend Getorius, perhaps find out Maximin’s interest in the document he was curious about. Why not go?

  “Senator, I’ll have to speak to my husband. I’m seeing him tomorrow.”

  “Understood.” Maximin put down his cup, leaned forward, and affected a confidential tone. “I’ll speak to the guards’ tribune. House arrest can be made quite comfortable. And my lawyer will talk to the bishop about dropping his absurd allegation.”

  Arcadia knew these were not idle boasts. Maximin’s wealth spoke in both the civil and episcopal palaces, even at Rome itself, where the Senate had erected a statue of him in Trajan’s forum. Why not have a powerful friend for a change? Getorius certainly needs one now.

  “Senator, I’ll tell my husband I’ve accepted your offer.”

  “Splendid.” Maximin opened a leather case hanging under his cloak and took out a wax notebook. “A good time would be…yes, the calends of December, three days from now. Will that be convenient for you?”

  “Perhaps the first through the fifth?”

  “Fine. And you’ll look in on mother?”

  “Yes, tomorrow before I go to see Getorius.”

  Maximin stood up and took both of Arcadia’s hands in his. “I…my wife…will enjoy your company, my dear. I’ll send a carriage for you at the fourth hour on the calends.”

  “Thank you Senator. I’ll see you out.”

  Arcadia returned to the study, already excited about visiting Getorius the next day, but now there was also the carnelian ring to tell him about. And even though Maximin had not pressed his questions about the papyri, her intuition told her he was aware of more than he had let on. He knew about Sigisvult and Renatus even though Placidia had kept the information about their deaths inside the palace. If there were accomplices to the conspiracy, as Zadok believed, Maximin and his unnamed palace contacts could be crucial.

  She was somewhat disturbed at the senator’s manner—smooth as the polished marble table on which he had left his empty wine cup. He touched her too often, but his wife would be at the villa, and perhaps she could learn more about Maximin’s ‘business’ dealings there.

  The next day was the beginning of the Advent season, a four-week cycle of rituals that prepared for the commemoration of Christ’s birth at Bethlehem over four hundred years ago. Bishop Chrysologos decreed that the time would also mark a transition: including the Lord’s Day, the seven days of the week would now be called by the Frankish names already used by the majority of Ravenna’s citizens. Some of his presbyters felt this was an unnecessary concession to the language of a largely pagan tribe, but the bishop held firm on the matter as a realistic convenience. Besides, the Roman names commemorated the sun and moon, as well as the old pagan gods Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus and Saturn.

  Arcadia hurried to the palace after treating Agatha, worried that Getorius might take the Eucharist bread and wine if a deacon brought him the Sacrament.

  She found him feeling depressed, and about to read from the Advent psalm in a Mass codex he had gotten from the library.

  After a long embrace, she said, “Read the psalm to me, Husband. I was thinking of you when I heard it yesterday.”

  Getorius shrugged. “All right. It starts:

  To you, Lord, I raise my very soul.

  O my God, in you I have put my trust,

  Let me not come to shame.

  Do not let my enemies laugh at me.

  No one who hopes in you will be put to shame.

  Let them be ashamed who are perverse and treacherous.”

  He looked up. “It couldn’t be more apt, could it, Arcadia?”

  “Have faith, Getorius,” she urged. “Have you found out anything more about the condition of Behan’s corpse, or why the bishop is accusing you?”

  “I think so, there seem to be no secrets here that can’t be bought. Give Charadric a siliqua when you leave, and one for his comrade at the episcopal palace.”

  “All right, but what about Behan?”

  “His body was sewn into a shroud before being put inside that cage I ordered.”

  “By whom?” Arcadia asked.

  “I don’t know who went out there. But after Behan was brought back to the ice room, two deacons were assigned to dress him in a robe they found in that clothes chest we brought back, then lay him in a coffin. When they cut apart the stitches on the shroud, they found that his abdomen had been pretty well disemboweled.”

  “What? Could it have been an animal? A ferret or something?”

  Getorius shook his head. “The shroud was intact and the body inside the willow-work cage.”

  “But why are they blaming you? You weren’t the last person to see the body.”

  “The bishop knows of my opposition to his ban on dissection. I’ve certainly pestered him enough to lift it.”

  “So? What makes him think you disobeyed his order?”

  “Arcadia,”—Getorius brushed at her chestnut hair, then looked into her green eyes. “Arcadia, the deacons evidently found one of my scalpels inside the shroud.”

  “Inside? How could they?” she asked in disbelief. “You didn’t examine the body again after we left. And why do they even think it’s yours?”

  “Do you recall when I had Charadric punch initials on my instruments, like he did on his knife? They say there was a G A in dots on the handle.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “No. It will only be presented at my trial.”

  “Getorius, how could the scalpel have gotten there? You always have your instruments at the clinic, or with you in your medical case.”

  “Could I have left one in the hut? No. Hades, I used it on…ah…Pandora.”

  “That still doesn’t explain the dissection. I want to see the body.”

  “I’ve already asked and been refused. Behan will be buried by the time of my trial. The only witnesses will be those two deacons…and both are against me.”

  Both fell silent at the prospect, knowing that under Roman law the accused was generally considered to be guilty, otherwise magistrates felt the charge never would have been brought forward.

  Arcadia voiced a thought, “Do you think this might be connected to the papyri? A delaying tactic until after they’re revealed?”

  “Involving the bishop? Cara, that’s just too far-fetched.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Oh,” he recalled, “I also heard some barracks gossip from Charadric. Whoever comes from Behan’s monastery should be here by mid-week.”

  “That would be…Wodnesdag, no? Yesterday, the bishop made the weekday names that Childibert uses official.”

  “You mean Monandag, Tiwesdag, and so on? How barbaric.”

  Both laughed at the brief diversion, while Arcadia mentally braced herself to bring up the senator’s invitation. “Getorius. Publius Maximin came to see me yesterday.”

  “About his mother? How is she?”

  “A little better. I treated her this morning. What I wanted to tell you is that he wears a carnelian ring with a rooster symbol on it.”

  “What?”

  “He explained that it represented his estate outside Ravenna, where he raises poultry and fighting cocks.”

  “I believe him. Many of the wealthy have rather sadistic pastimes.” Getorius reflected a moment. “What finger was this ring on?”

  “Finger?” Arcadia thought back. “On the small digit of his right hand. Is that important?”

  “Remember that circle of white you said you noticed on Behan’s finger? Maximin is a big man. He could only get the monk’s ring on one of his smaller fingers.”

  “You’re saying he’s wearing Behan’s ring?”

  “Not necessarily, Arcadia. I guess I’m looking for anyone who could be one of the accomplices whom ben Zadok suspects might be involved.”

>   “I thought of that, too.” Arcadia looked away at a spider exploring the ceiling before saying, “Getorius…the senator has invited me to his villa for a few days next week.”

  “Oh, fine, fine,” he snapped, stepping back and sitting down on the bed. “I’m confined here, and you go off to the private estate of a man who may be part of a conspiracy to instigate civil war. Maximin has access to the palace, and he’s no stranger to acquiring power. The Gothic Queen may be right…perhaps Aetius is in this with him.”

  “Getorius—”

  “No, hear me out. What better way to declare a crisis, then turn the government into a military dictatorship? Meanwhile, as accidental witnesses to the plot’s basis, I die here like Sigisvult, and you’re never seen again after going to the villa of the fighting cockerels. Everyone who knew where the papyri were hidden is eliminated.”

  Arcadia was silent for a moment after her husband’s outburst, than said firmly, “Then that’s exactly why I’m going. Perhaps I’ll find something out.” She came to him, knelt down, put her arms around his neck, and nuzzled his cheek with her face. “If Rabbi Zadok is right about the Nativity being the date for the will’s release, then there’s still a month before we…ah…need to be eliminated. I promise to tell Childibert where I’m going, and I’ll take Silvia and Primus with me.”

  “A woman and a child? I’d feel better if Nathaniel went along.”

  “I can’t risk insulting the senator. Or making him suspicious, if he is involved.”

  “I’m just tense, cara. Worried.” Getorius kissed Arcadia’s forehead and buried his face in her hair. “Come and tell me about Maximin’s place next…Monandag.”

  She laughed and pulled free. “I promise. And you eat only what Brisios brings you.”

  Arcadia walked back to her villa disturbed at the inexplicable fact that one of her husband’s medical instruments had been found inside the dead monk’s shroud.

  Even Maximin’s best lawyer would have trouble defending Getorius on a charge made by two clergymen as witnesses. It’s conceivable that a patient could have stolen the scalpel, but I can’t think of any who might have a reason to be that vindictive. Who else would go to so much trouble to falsely accuse him?

  What could be good news is that someone is coming from Behan’s monastery. Perhaps Galla Placidia could question the monk and find out if he knows anything about the hidden documents…or about a plan to release them.

  Meanwhile, I’d better select the clothes I’m going to take with me to the senator’s villa.

  Chapter sixteen

  December the first was foggy and drizzling at the fourth hour, when an elegant two-wheeled black carriage with a leather top pulled up to the Via Caesar entrance of Arcadia’s home. Arcadia was waiting, yet, despite what she had told Getorius, she had decided not to bring Silvia or her son to the senator’s country villa.

  Brisios put Arcadia’s travel case behind the seats and helped her up to sit alongside the driver. “Agrica is preparing a pan of rissoles,” she told her gateman. “Take it to the Surgeon at the sixth hour and remind him he’s to eat nothing except what you bring.”

  “I will, Mistress.”

  As the carriage pulled away from the curbstones, Arcadia eased the hood of her cloak higher over her head. She had had Silvia draw her hair into a bun in back, a less attractive style Arcadia felt made her look older. She had put on a tunic that was unadorned with embroidery and had not worn earrings.

  It’s not the time to look attractive, she thought, rubbing at her gold wedding band. On his visit Maximin had groped for her hand at every opportunity; the band would be a reminder for him not to get too interested.

  “How far is the senator’s villa?” Arcadia asked the driver, after he had guided the mare left, onto the Via Honorius. When he did not reply, she tugged at his sleeve. “How far are we going?”

  The man, whose face had been concealed by a leather hood, turned to her, revealing a pudgy, unshaven face.

  “How far away is the villa?” Arcadia repeated, a bit frightened at his appearance.

  The driver’s grin was almost a leer as he pulled aside his cloak and pointed to a silver plaque dangling around his neck. Arcadia saw that it was engraved with the words MVTVS SVRDVS. Mute and deaf…Maximin doesn’t want his driver questioned, and the man can’t tell anyone about what he sees. Clever.

  At the intersection with the Via Theodosius the mute guided the horse straight ahead. Arcadia knew that beyond the Porta Aurea, where the Via Popilia angled to meet the Aemilia, an unpaved road led to Forum Livii, some fifteen miles to the southwest. It was probably impassable because of the rain, and Maximin had said that his villa was about a mile from the city.

  Arcadia wanted to ask about their route, but realized that even if the driver read lips, he couldn’t respond to her question. She felt a moment of helpless panic, recalling Getorius’ comment about her never being seen again after going to the Villa of the Red Rooster.

  At the end of the Honorius the carriage passed through one of the graceful double arches of the Aurea Gate. Beyond, only a few farmers were on the Via Popilia, hunched over and protecting themselves from the rain with leather cloaks and wide-brimmed straw hats, as they sloshed along next to oxen pulling carts of firewood to town.

  An abandoned shrine to Mercurius marked the angle of the Popilia. When the carriage lurched into the ruts of an unpaved road, mud from the wheel spattered Arcadia’s cape. After going on about half a mile, the driver turned the horse onto a narrow path to the right. The cobblestone paving was less muddy, but just as bone-jarring.

  A short distance beyond the turn, a stone bridge spanned the swollen Bedesis River, whose yellow water churned on to border Ravenna’s west and north walls. In the gray light, where the pine forest had been cleared, farms seemed deserted; it was too sodden to work outdoors. After the carriage slowed to cross the boards of another bridge, this one over a creek, a high wall and two-level gatehouse appeared faintly through the misty air. Coming closer, Arcadia saw sentries huddled on its upper porch, a vantage point that gave them a clear view of traffic on the lane. No one could approach the villa unseen.

  “The senator’s farm is better protected than the legion camp,” Arcadia muttered, and was startled when the mute suddenly grabbed her hand, grinning as he held it up to point at the gatehouse roof. Despite the dull light, the sheen of rain made a golden rooster on its top shine brilliantly.

  “Yes, the villa of the rooster.” Arcadia shook her hand free, and brushed at mud on the driver’s sleeve. When he looked at her, she mouthed slowly, “I’m sorry you had to pick me up in this poor weather.” Perhaps he could lip-read, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a friendly contact at the villa who could drive a carriage.

  Guards opened twin wooden doors in the stone wall and waved the mute through with their spears. The main villa was located a few hundred paces beyond the gatehouse. A paved courtyard was surrounded on three sides by a portico that sheltered entrances to the buildings. The center house was built on two levels. A fountain in the middle of the courtyard overflowed, splashing water on paving stones already puddled by rain.

  After the mute circled the carriage around the fountain and halted at the portico of the main house, a well-dressed slave materialized from behind a pillar to carry Arcadia’s case. As she stepped down, the driver grinned at her again, a look she felt resembled a satyr’s leer.

  So much for having a friend here. Nevertheless she smiled at him and slipped a silver half-siliqua into his hand.

  When the slave opened the villa doors, Arcadia caught her breath, overwhelmed by the magnificence of the entrance atrium. Rather than being paved in tile or mosaic, the floor was made of fitted slabs of Tibertine marble. In the center, rainwater sloshed off a roof opening that angled toward a rectangular pool beneath. The rim was bordered by a design of sea creatures, whose open mouths channeled the overflow into an underground cistern. The splashing sound might have been pleasant in summer, but the winter downp
our grated on Arcadia’s already tender nerves.

  She was briefly startled by a life-size bronze statue of the senator that greeted visitors from under a portico. After Arcadia realized it was not the man himself, she guessed it was probably a copy of his statue in Rome. She wrinkled her nose at a pervasive smell. The one incongruous element in the elegant setting was the unmistakable odor of chicken dung that hung on the wet air. I was warned, Maximin did tell me he raised chickens, but what was that about escaping the stench of Ravenna’s sewers?

  The slave took Arcadia’s cloak, and divested of the damp garment, she looked up. Publius Maximin stood next to his statue, affecting the same stance. He posed for a moment, then came forward in a swirl of bay scent, both hands extended, smiling.

  “My dear. How kind of you to indulge me with your visit.”

  “Thank you Senator. Your entranceway is … magnificent.”

  “Yes, isn’t it. You must be chilled. We’ll go into my reception room before you’re shown to where you’ll stay. Marpor will take your bag there.”

  The tablinium floor was warm, and the walls were decorated with paintings depicting scenes from Roman history. Several masks hung in a row beneath the paintings. At a table one of the most handsome men Arcadia had ever seen sat painting a wooden mask. He wore a short tunic that revealed muscular arms and legs. A silver band circled his black curly hair in a style reminiscent of a statue of a Greek athlete that her father owned.

  Maximin swept a hand out to indicate the paintings and masks. “The destiny of Rome, another of my passions,” he explained. “That’s Jason over there. The clever lad carved those masks, which represent famous people in the city’s past. The murals begin with Aeneas over here.” Maximin slipped a hand around Arcadia’s arm and led her to the first painting, where the Trojan hero was shown carrying his blind father Anchises away from the burning citadel. “Do you know the story, my dear?”

  “After Troy was destroyed, didn’t Aeneas’s mother, Venus, guide him to the mouth of the Tiber?”