“I am the caring shepherd,” Renatus quoted, “and I know my sheep and my sheep know me.”
Even the usually opinionated Theokritos was uncritical at viewing the blue and green colors, which sparkled with gold tiles that had been worked into Christ’s robe and halo.
“Sigisvult”—Placidia broke the spell again—“you’ve more than repaid my faith in you through this work. Come to think of it, there are two of you here who owe their lives to me. Surgeon, we’ll speak of my plans for you later. Now, Sigisvult, I want to see the niche where I’ll be buried. You said the mosaic of Saint Lawrence was finished?”
“Yes, Empress. We need to remove the scaffold, but the work is complete. Here…in the transept opposite the entrance.” The group followed Sigisvult past two arched recesses. “These are where the sarcophagi of Honorius and Constantius will be placed,” he explained.
“My brother and my husband,” Placidia commented softly. “Near me for eternity.”
In a semi-circular space above her niche, the figure of Lawrence hovered in spiritual ecstasy, next to the fiery grill on which he had been martyred. A flicker of torchlight played on the alabaster pane of a center window.
“I don’t know anything about Lawrence,” Arcadia admitted. “Why did you include him, Sigisvult?”
“It was the Archdeacon’s idea,” Placidia answered. “What did you tell me, Renatus?”
“Lawrence became a deacon during the reign of Valerian. The emperor generally let Christians practice the Faith, but then everything seemed to go wrong for Rome. Persians, Germani, Goths…all attacked our frontiers at once.”
“Not unlike today,” Placidia remarked wryly. “Continue.”
“The Augustus wanted to divert attention and blame someone. One of his advisers, a member of an Egyptian cult, brought his magicians. They persuaded the old emperor that his toleration of Christians had offended the Roman gods—”
“Which was strange,” Theokritos interrupted, “since Denys of Alexandria wrote that the palace was almost like a church because so many Christians worked there.”
“Again, why was Lawrence singled out?” Placidia asked.
“Sixtus the Second, namesake of our present pontiff, was in Peter’s Chair. Valerian’s treasury officials cast greedy eyes on the Church’s money, goods that were intended for the poor. It was Lawrence’s responsibility to distribute them, as now it is mine. The assassins ambushed Sixtus in a catacomb, murdered him and some of his presbyters.”
Renatus pointed up to the iron grill. “Lawrence was tortured on that device to make him reveal the location of the treasure.”
Dressed in a white toga, Lawrence held a golden cross and an open book in his hands. A pale blue celestial background was in peaceful contrast to the angry red flames beneath the grill.
“Lawrence is rising in glory,” Sigisvult said, explaining the symbolism. “It took some doing to get the folds of the toga to express his spiritual state. The cross is an emblem of his martyrdom.”
“The tradition holds,” Renatus continued, “that when Lawrence was ordered to reveal the Church’s treasure, he brought in sick and poor people. That cabinet alongside the saint displays the Testaments of Mark, Luke, Matthew and John. Lawrence said those writings were his other treasures, a record of the Savior’s life.”
Feletheus edged up to Theokritos. “Master,” he whispered, “I’ve been studying the mosaic. There is a book of John shown in the cabinet.”
“A Book of John?” Theokritos gave a half-laugh. “Ridiculous. It’s an ikon, a picture. What could it conceal?”
“Just the same, if I might look more closely?”
“What are you two conspiring about?” Placidia demanded, frowning. “Don’t you like the artwork, Librarian?”
“Indeed, it is exquisite, Regina,” Theokritos replied, “as you said yourself. My assistant wishes to examine the tile work of the Testaments more closely.”
“Would that be all right, Sigisvult?”
“Have him get on the scaffolding. It’s not high, but the man must still be careful.”
Feletheus climbed the framework with surprising agility. Once he was facing the tile book design, he ran his fingers along its edges, and then called down, “Master, I feel a space around the sides. As if the book could be removed.”
“Pulled out?” Getorius asked.
“Yes.”
“Impossible,” Sigisvult scoffed. “The tesserae are less than a finger’s thickness in depth.”
“Will the book come out?” Theokritos asked, watching his assistant.
Feletheus tugged at the edges. “It…yes…it’s moving.”
The John mosaic was at the lower right, about on eye level with Feletheus. As he pulled harder the book shape began to move forward and allow him a better grip. “It’s…slid…ing out,” he grunted. “There’s a space…behin…”
Feletheus never finished mouthing the word. The bolt from a small crossbow concealed in the opening caught him in the forehead with such force that it passed through his skull and shattered in the Imperial Shepherd opposite. The librarian’s body swayed on the scaffold an instant, like a puppet whose strings are abruptly cut, then toppled off, spattering blood on Galla Placidia’s white cloak as he fell to the floor with a sickening thump. The square of tiles dropped with him, narrowly missing Arcadia before shattering on the floor.
Placidia instinctively stepped back. Renatus was too stunned to even cross himself. Sigisvult braced a hand on a corner of the scaffold and vomited. Theokritos stood staring down at his mutilated assistant.
“Christ Jesus!” Getorius blurted. “What happened?” He bent down over Feletheus’ body. “H…he’s dead…killed instantly,” he whispered in a hoarse voice, then looked up at the opening where the tiles had been removed. Something glinted inside the lethal trap, next to the bow, as if a metallic object was stored there.
“Archdeacon, cover the poor man,” Placidia ordered, removing her bloodstained cloak and handing it to Renatus. “Isn’t there a prayer you can say? An anointing? Anything?”
Before Renatus could react, two members of Aetius’ Hunnic guard appeared at the door, their swords drawn. Getorius’ first thought was that the violent death was a signal for a palace takeover, and that the two Huns had been assigned to capture or kill the emperor’s mother. He suspected that Flavius Aetius constantly had the fate of Stilicho in mind. Their positions were similar—Honorius’ army commander had been betrayed and murdered—but a wary Aetius would undoubtedly act first.
While one of
