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
