Arcadia ended the exchange when the carriage turned into the Honorius. “The palace is just ahead,” she warned, “try to be pleasant. Remember that our hosts are the emperor, his wife, and his mother.”
Getorius roused himself when the carriage pulled up to the entrance, and two of the tallest men he had seen, Hun or otherwise, came down the steps. “Look at the size of those brutes!” he exclaimed. “Aetius is trying to impress someone with his personal guards.”
“Put a shield over your mouth,” Arcadia hissed, “your babbling could get us exiled. Next, you’ll be shouting about Pandora during dinner.”
Her comment surprised him. Arcadia had not mentioned the dissection again, but it was obviously on her mind. “Just an observation. Everyone invited lives at the Lauretum, except us and Renatus.”
“Shield it, husband.”
“Relax, cara. These Huns probably know about enough Latin to order wine in a tavern.”
“Getorius!”
His goading dissolved into a grin as he tripped over the folds of his toga stepping down from the carriage.
Inside, the hallway was lined with eight more Hunnic sentries. Each man was a duplicate of the next, except for the belted tunic he wore. The silk material had different patterns, with gold coins sewed on as decorations. The guards wore sable hats, dyed calfskin boots, and stood as rigidly as statues, holding their curved swords down, with the tips resting on the floor.
Getorius was impressed. If we had enough men in our legions with half the Huns’ discipline, there might be more hope for the empire, despite inept rulers like Valentinian.
Galla Placidia had chosen a reception room on the left of the hallway as the intimate location for her dinner. Warm light from the open door reflected off the floor tiles, and a scent of incense was drifting into the hallway from the room. Voices of guests who had already arrived resonated in soft inflections.
When Getorius escorted Arcadia into the room, Placidia was standing a short distance from the door, speaking to Sigisvult. Valentinian and his wife Eudoxia were reclining on one of the couches, nibbling at a variety of first-course delicacies. Theokritos bent his head close to that of Archdeacon Renatus, speaking in a hushed tone.
Aetius did not seem to have arrived yet.
Arcadia gasped audibly when she saw Placidia, stunned by the magnificence of the tunic she wore—a direct contrast to the request that her guests dress simply. “It doesn’t seem possible that earthly hands could have created that material,” she whispered to her husband. “It shimmers as if it comes from some celestial realm.”
The purple silk body of Placidia’s tunic was decorated by twin stripes of gold cloth, embroidered with a motif of roses down each band. Gold thread letters sewn onto a blue background on her left sleeve spelled the initials G P R G, for Galla Placidia Regina Gothorum, which proclaimed her rank as Queen of the Goths. Amazed as Arcadia was at the rich material, she was even more astonished at the ornamentation on Placidia’s head. Her hair’s crowning glory—literally—was a gold-filigree corona that rested lightly on it. Gold letters hung around the lower edge to spell out the queen’s name, G A L L A P L A C I D I A. Above these, the openwork was set with three rows of alternating pearl and sapphire gems.
Placidia looked around, as if aware that Arcadia was staring at her. She excused herself to Sigisvult and came forward, fingering a gold medallion struck with her profile and the words salvs reipvblicae. As did her son’s coins, the inscription equated her with the health of the republic.
“Surgeon,” she said, smiling at Getorius. “I’m pleased that you came to Our dinner.”
“Th…this is my wife Arcadia,” he stammered, bowing because Placidia had used the formal pronoun in referring to herself.
“Welcome. My dear, We noticed you admiring Our crown. It was a wedding gift from Ataulf. We were Queen of the Goths at twenty-six.” Placidia gave a throaty chuckle, then turned back to Getorius. “You knew Our physician, Nicias.”
“Yes. He brought me here…Empress.”
“Of course, Surgeon. Tell me the story again.” In her request, Placidia dropped the pronoun.
While Placidia reminisced with Getorius about the old physician, Arcadia studied the woman. She guessed her to be about fifty years old. Graying hair lightly tinted with a henna rinse set off the gold in the coronet. It was common knowledge that, as a child, Placidia had been raised in the imperial palaces of Constantinople and Rome, although her father, Theodosius, had come from Hispania. He was an army commander when Gratian appointed him Augustus of the East, after the disastrous Roman defeat at Adrianople. Theodosius had been elected emperor and had redirected Roman military policy by allowing Goths to be unconditionally recruited into the army.
Galla Placidia was as convinced as her father that Romans and barbarian tribes on the frontiers of the empire must join together for mutual security. Ataulf, her Visigoth husband, had shared her vision, but his untimely assassination had raised others to leadership who were not as fascinated by the Roman way of life.
Arcadia was suddenly roused from her musing by Placidia’s voice. “We’ll begin dinner without Flavius Aetius. Your names are on a papyrus which states which couch you’ll share. Surgeon, come with your wife and meet the Augustus and Augusta.”
Valentinian grunted an acknowledgement, eyeing Arcadia as he slowly licked his fingers. Eudoxia managed one of the wan smiles she reserved for social inferiors.
Getorius was not pleased to find himself sharing a couch with Sigisvult and the absent Aetius, while Arcadia was placed between Placidia and Theokritos. The emperor, his wife, and Renatus were to their right. Still, at least Arcadia hadn’t been placed next to the Augustus.
After the guests had variously slid, rolled, or tumbled onto the unfamiliar slanted beds, servants wearing short tunics and the floppy Phrygian caps of freemen brought in pitchers of sweetened wine.
