“I’d heard. You must be very proud of him.”
“I was at one time, but ambition has changed Publius. The saying is that it’s better to be first in a village than second in Rome. He wants to be first in both.”
“To be Augustus?” The prospect is arrogant, if not treasonable. “Yes, well, send Fabia for the opion.” Getorius grasped both of the old woman’s hands. “I’ll look in on you again.”
“I’d like that…Getorius.”
“My gateman knows a carpenter. Brisios will bring him.”
Agatha closed her eyes and murmured, “Then I can ride in style to meet Dis Pater.”
Getorius sloshed home twice as wet, sniffling, and in a humor as foul as the weather.
There was about an hour left before he had to dress in a ridiculous garment, go to a dinner attended by unfamiliar people, and be forced to listen to conversation about undoubtedly boring subjects. If that were not enough aggravation, the Augustus of the Western Roman Empire would probably try to seduce Arcadia. She would not succumb, of course, but depending on the degree of Valentinian’s fascination with her, the emperor might decide there was one husband too many still lurking around.
He found his wife in the bedroom, where Silvia was helping her dress.
“You’re soaking, Getorius,” Arcadia observed. “Is it still raining out there?”
He gave an authentic but exaggerated sneeze as an answer.
“Go to the hot pool.”
“I haven’t time.”
“Then have Brisios give you a quick rub-down. Silvia, bring him here,” Arcadia ordered.
“What is Placidia thinking?” Getorius grumbled as he dried his hair with a towel. “Does she expect to raise the body of the Republic like Christ did that of Lazarus? Ancient Rome has had rigor mortis for over four hundred years.”
“Perhaps she wants to bring a little morality back into the court.”
“Morality.” Getorius grunted and stripped off his wet clothes, then lay on the bed watching Arcadia examine her hairstyle in a silver hand mirror. “The whole affair makes me uncomfortable. If I recall Livius’ history, the Republic began with the rape of a Roman woman, and ended with the rape of the Celts and then the Senate, by Julius Caesar.”
“Why are you so upset?” Arcadia put down the mirror, sat on the bed and rubbed his back. “So my ancestors are Roman and yours are mostly Celtic. Are you blaming me?”
“No, no, of course not, cara. I just think this play acting is in bad taste…to say nothing of going out in this miserable weather when my phlegm humor is acting up.” Getorius brought Arcadia’s hand to his lips and nibbled her fingers. “What if we spent the evening in the bathhouse instead? You know—”
“You satyr!” Arcadia tousled his hair and pulled the blanket over him. “I hear Silvia coming back with Brisios. I know, the whole affair seems silly, and I’m not sure of Placidia’s motive, but it might get you into the palace.”
And you into her son’s bed. Instead of voicing the thought, Getorius buried his face in his wife’s stola. “You smell good. What’s that new scent?”
“Something Silvia found in a Syrian importer’s shop near the docks. Make that a short rub,” she told Brisios, after he entered with a jug of oil. “Veneranda isn’t here to help with the Surgeon’s toga. I’ll have to adjust it.”
Brisios poured out a palm full of warm, scented oil and began to knead his master’s shoulder and neck muscles.
“Tell me again, Arcadia, who’s going to be there?” The pillow muffled Getorius’s question.
“The archdeacon. Your librarian. Sigisvult.”
“‘Aetius the Wifeless.’”
“Yes. Of course, the Augustus and Augusta.”
Getorius looked up from the pillow. “I don’t want Valentinian sitting next to you.”
“It’s not up to you. Besides, I doubt if we’ll be sitting. Placidia will have us reclining on couches like all my decadent Roman ancestors did.”
“Even worse!” Getorius started up, almost knocking over the jug. “I won’t have that lecher lying next to you.”
“Thank you, Brisios,” Arcadia said, flushing. “The Surgeon will have to dress now. Please could you bring the covered carriage to the courtyard.”
“Where then, is that furcing toga?” Getorius snapped. “Sorry, cara. Some army slang I picked up.”
“Silvia, bring the toga,” Arcadia said quietly, ignoring her husband’s outburst. From helping treat soldiers she knew the term derived from the furca, a two-pronged cross to which legionaries were tied as punishment. It had become a derogatory term for the men.
By the time Arcadia draped the length of material around Getorius—to her satisfaction if not to his—and Brisios had the carriage ready, the drizzle had stopped. A reddish glow in the early afternoon sky silhouetted the remaining dark wisps of cloud that were scattering to the east. The rose color was reflected in water gurgling through the streets to sewers, or lying in miniature lakes that mimicked the marshes surrounding Ravenna’s walls. A cool freshness was tempered by the pervading stench of sewage that overlaid the air.
The Via Caesar was an open cesspool when Brisios left the villa and drove the short distance to the Via Honorius. At the intersection, the market square had become a pink lake cluttered with floating baskets and barrels. Vendors on the north portico were sweeping the water away, and opening shops for a few customers who might come after the rain. Unfortunate slaves, who had drawn the short straw, picked their way over the raised stones across the Honorius to reach the market.
While Brisios waited for a line of wagons to pass, Arcadia glanced at her husband. Getorius was hunched in his toga, against one side of the carriage seat, with a sullen expression on his face. “I did a little research on the old ides,” she said, to lighten his mood. “It was the only festival day in November.”
“One too many.”
“The aedile still schedules a drama in the theater. I heard it was Aulularia, by Plautus, although I imagine the performance was rained out.”
“It’s a wonder that Bishop Chrysologos allows them to go on at all.”
“The play is about a gentle miser. People make fun of him because—”
“I know the story, Arcadia,”
