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.
As archdeacon, Behan had emphasized, Renatus would be contacted prior to the time of the prophecy’s fulfillment. Curiously, he had not asked for alms, as was normal with everyone who came to deacons. That alone gave the man’s enigmatic words some credibility, and yet the monk would surely have known that an archdeacon controlled vast sums. Behan might still have been intending to demand money after the prophesied event had come to pass.
Renatus chuckled softly as the litter bearers turned into the Via Basilicae. Christ had predicted that the poor would always be present, but he had failed to mention their cunning ways.
The archdeacon was suddenly thrown to one side of the small conveyance when the two men carrying it ducked under a porch overhang to avoid being drenched by the water that was gushing from the eaves. He brushed water off his cloak, recalling that Getorius had called the Celtic verses ‘word games.’ Prophecies were often hidden in cryptic phrases that needed interpretation. Who would give out the meaning, now that Behan was dead?
At the side entrance of the bishop’s residence the carriers made a show of refusing payment, but Renatus insisted that each take one of Valentinian’s bronze coins, which proclaimed him SALVS REIPVBLICAE, ‘The Health of the Republic.’ The amount was generous, so Renatus assumed their snickering was connected with the inscription.
Inside, the old porter took Renatus’ damp cloak, then said, “Archdeacon, while you were away a boy brought a sealed note.”
“Boy? From where?”
“He didn’t say, Excellency. It’s on your desk.”
Renatus nodded. Once in his office, he saw that the note’s vellum flap was secured with a lump of red wax. He angled the seal up to the dim light of the window and squinted at the impression. It was the strong image of a cockerel, much like the one Behan had made with his ring.
Renatus’ hand trembled as he slipped a thumbnail under the wax and worked it loose.
Perhaps this note will clear up the mystery and tell me what I’m involved in. After he read the greeting, he bit his lip nervously, then mumbled, “Who in the name of salvation is Smyrna? And why does he want me to meet with him?”
Chapter seven
Getorius watched the ides of November dawn with a cold deluge that poured in translucent sheets onto the buildings and streets of Ravenna. Well before midmorning the downpour sloshing off the roof tiles had backed up some of the city’s sewers. Marshes already swollen by the wet autumn could not contain the extra water, and a foul-smelling effluent was forced over curbs and into the narrow streets. The sour smell replaced the fragrance of baking bread and roasting meats that normally filled the morning air.
Only a few patients braved the wet weather to come to the clinic. Getorius was able to continue his animal dissections, still disappointed that he had felt unable to continue on the body of Marios, yet realizing that the risk, had he been discovered, could have had him and Arcadia exiled from the city—and even Italy itself.
He was about to leave the clinic for his midday meal when a free servant arrived from the villa of Publius Maximin. Tetricus said that the senator’s aged mother was ill, and Maximin wanted Getorius to look in on her.
Getorius knew that Maximin was the wealthiest and most influential man in Ravenna. He had been treasurer of the City of Rome twice, as well as Prefect of the Province of Italy, public services that had merited him a statue in Rome. Valentinian had appointed him Consul six years ago. The senator was out of public office now, but reportedly petitioning the emperor for the title of Patrician. All Ravenna knew that he delighted in showing off his affluence by hosting lavish banquets; one reason, Getorius surmised, that Galla Placidia had not invited him to her presumably austere evening. Another reason might be that Valentinian was rumored to be enjoying periodic hospitality in the bed of Maximin’s wife, Prisca. Placidia wanted people at her dinner that embodied the ideal she believed—or pretended to believe—existed at the time of the Roman Republic.
Irritated, and wondering why Maximin had not asked Antioches to come from the palace, Getorius
