“The old Roman theaters,” Epagnatos explained. “There’s a temple complex of Cybele behind them. Diviciac tries to make people understand that the pagan goddess was a precursor to the Virgin Mary, yet sacrifices are still found on her altars.”
“Pagan sacrifices,” Brenos muttered. “Another manifestation of the evil wood in the Nazarene’s vineyard that we have come to prune away.”
“Prune away? What do you mean, Abbot?”
“There’s my guide over there, beyond the bridge,” Brenos said, instead of elaborating. This deacon and his presbyter—all of Lugdunum—would soon find out what was meant.
Warinar stood by the gangplank stamping his feet, surrounded by slaves sweeping snow off the wharf into the river.
“Abbot,” he called and hurried to meet Brenos. “I’ve found a bargemaster who’ll take us to Arelate. I already have the horses on board.”
“First I wish to visit the shrine of Holy Blandina.”
“Impossible. Lothar wants to leave immediately, before the weather turns poor again. And there will be a hunter’s moon bright enough so we can stay with the current at night.”
Brenos hesitated. Should he risk arriving at Ravenna late in order to pray to a woman who might or might not rid him of his uncontrollable sexual urges?
“Abbot, Lothar is waiting to push off,” Warinar insisted.
“Very well. Deacon, I won’t need you.”
Epagnatos bowed. “Then, Abbot, God be with you on a safe journey.”
Brenos gave him a cursory nod and asked Warinar, “Where is this barge?”
“Uh…moored across from the Eros.”
Lothar’s boat had a small cabin built into the stern to house his family when they went along on his trading journeys to towns along the Rhodanus River. The Arar merged with its larger, alpine-fed sister, beyond an island opposite Lugdunum’s lower city.
The boatman had decided to risk a voyage to Arelate with a load of wine casks, and realized that a traveling churchman had money. Also, his guide seemed desperate. Lothar shrewdly negotiated two gold solidi with Warinar—a fifth of a year’s earnings—for taking the group aboard, and estimated that the swollen river current would bring them to the southern city in about three days.
Warinar told the abbot he would decide what route to take from there, to reach Ravenna in time.
Brenos was pleased. On Warinar’s map Arelate was almost a third of the distance along, and there would be no snow on the southern route to further delay them. Perhaps the storm at Lugdunum had been God’s way of preventing an unforeseen accident on the mountain route. Even if they reached the capital a day or two after December sixth, there would still be enough time to contact Smyrna and plan for the revelation of the Nazarene’s will at the Nativity Mass.
Ravenna
Chapter eleven
Sigisvult’s death had brought the unsettling events of the last few days to a head, and so depressed Getorius that he refused to see patients. Instead, he closed himself off in his study, while Arcadia took care of the clinic. He was not too concerned; since the weather had turned milder, there were fewer patients who came in to be treated for fevers and phlegm imbalances, and he could spend time recovering from his own unbalanced humor.
The palace gave out no details concerning the deaths of Feletheus or Sigisvult. The two men had been on the imperial staff, therefore nothing need be said about them publicly. They were buried in a closed ceremony from the Chapel of the Archangel Michael, which was built in a wing of the imperial apartments.
The day after the funerals a woman came into the clinic complaining of a bloated leg. Arcadia, alarmed by her condition, did not feel competent enough to treat her. She went to her husband’s study to ask him to examine the swollen limb.
“Getorius, will you see a patient?”
“What’s his problem?” he asked without looking up from a book.
“It’s a woman. The wife of Charadric, actually, the guard whose hand you treated.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Her left leg is swollen and as red as cinnabar. Getorius, I know you’re upset, but I need your help with this. How long are you going to brood over Sigisvult’s death?”
“Call it brooding if you want, but I’m also thinking about what Theokritos said.”
“About his tests on the papyri?”
“No, woman!” he snapped, “that two of the witnesses are dead. Three, if you count Feletheus. That leaves you and me—”
“And Galla Placidia, Theokritos, Renatus. What are you getting at?”
“We went to the mausoleum on a…on the whim of Placidia. That manuscript was meant to be disclosed, but not then, and certainly not in that way. It was pure chance that we went on that particular night and Feletheus discovered a hidden niche in the mosaic design. Otherwise, the will papyrus would still be there, ready to be made public when Behan—or someone who hid it there—decided it should be revealed.” Getorius slammed his book shut. “That last will and testament of Christ is Behan’s prophecy, yet when and where was he going to announce it?”
“I don’t want to discuss that now, not with that poor woman in the clinic. Are you coming? Her name is Ingunda.”
Getorius sighed, flung the book aside, and stood up and followed Arcadia.
In the clinic he saw a somewhat overweight woman with a youngish face sitting on a chair, her swollen leg elevated on a stool. Good. Arcadia’s done the correct thing. He wanted to sound cordial, but had forgotten the patient’s name.
“Well, Domina…Domina—”
“Ingunda,” Arcadia reminded him.
“Yes. Ingunda, I saved your husband’s hand once, and now it seems that one of your legs is trying to have a life of its own. Let me see if I can’t make it behave.”
Getorius had seen the condition before in heavy women, but they had all been older than Ingunda. He had no idea what caused one leg to suddenly swell up with an imbalance of blood. Soranus of Ephesus wrote in his handbook for midwives that women’s tissues were spongier than men’s. This was so that they could absorb and
