When the carriage reached the Porta Laurenti, sunlight had broken through the mist and set points of light sparkling on the surface of swamps outside the wall. To the left, the bright blue line of the Adriatic Sea materialized out of the haze.
Getorius steered the mare, carriage wheels clattering, over the boards of the bridge spanning the river. Beyond, the weathered mausoleums and monuments of the necropolis lined both sides of the roadway. A few were decorated with ivy or votive offerings of food, mute testimonials to the fact that crypto-pagans still venerated the dead, despite the ban on their religion.
Arcadia was silent, and Getorius sensed that his wife was still annoyed with him.
“You were right,” he said, squeezing her knee, “I should have told Brisios the truth. I was nervous about meeting this David ben Zadok.”
“You thought he might be able to tell you more about your parents.”
“That’s part of it, but we don’t really know what Judeans are like. I’ve never had one as a patient.”
“Because they have their own physicians and keep to their own quarter,” Arcadia said. “Bishop Chrysologos blames any hostility toward Judeans as being their fault for rejecting Christ.”
“Ridiculous! The bishop also condemns Arians, or any other sect that disagrees with the Roman Church.”
“Then how do you think Chrysologos would react to the terms of the Secundus Papyrus?”
“That worries me, Arcadia. The will is like a loaded catapult, and it wouldn’t take much to trip the trigger. Can you imagine provincial governors, city councils, quietly handing over authority to Judeans? And this Rabbi Zadok may turn out to be a militant Hebrew who’ll insist on the testament being made public even before its authenticity is determined.”
Getorius fell silent at the prospect. Arcadia gazed off at the stunted trees of a waterlogged scrub forest that was struggling to bracket the highway.
Further on, about halfway to Classis, the road became a raised causeway that was surrounded by a broad swamp and the deposits of sandy soil that were inexorably filling in the port’s once magnificent harbor. Squinting to the left of this marshy lake, Getorius saw the dense evergreens of The Pines as a dark line that mimicked the sea’s flat horizon. Valentinian was hunting there, far from Behan’s abandoned hut, Getorius guessed, which probably now served as an overnight shelter for woodcutters.
The monk’s canvas-shrouded body still bobbed in the stream nearby, a grisly captive inside its wicker prison, while it awaited burial.
Classis
Chapter thirteen
Even before the walls of Classis came into view, Getorius commented to his wife on the acrid smell of bitumen drifting inland from the port’s shipyards. They arrived at the Ravenna Gate by late morning, greeted by more pleasant odors. Vendors were roasting meat and fish over pinewood coals, selling them to passersby.
The walls and gate towers were lower than those in the capital, but well constructed. Sigisvult had talked about Vitruvius Pollio, the architect who helped design the port for Augustus Caesar, and had read from his treatise on the location of towns. The same cluster of vendors’ stalls, idlers and ragged indigents that crowded the entrances to Ravenna were also present here, almost choking off the narrow passage into the city. Getorius strained to guide the carriage through without knocking down a stall, or running a wheel over a beggar’s leg. At best that would delay them; at worse, risk a lawsuit in the local magistrate’s court.
Once the carriage was beyond the gate and inside an open square, Getorius halted the mare to ask someone where the imperial mansio was located. Two men standing drinking at a wineseller’s stall, and armed with swords, looked over, evidently recognizing him as a newcomer. One came over and took hold of the horse’s bit. The other, a scarred, beefy man who might have served in the legions at one time, walked around to squint at Arcadia and Getorius.
“Where y’going?” he asked, peering inside the carriage.
“I have business in Classis,” Getorius told him.
“Where? Who with?”
“Business,” Getorius repeated, not used to being questioned about his movements.
“There’s a visitor’s tax,” the other man added with a snicker. “One gold solidus.”
“Show them Galla Placidia’s signet,” Arcadia muttered under her breath.
“It would mean nothing to these two illiterates, and I’ll be with Hades before I pay extortion money. I’m a surgeon,” he said more loudly to the man, “here on a personal matter.”
“Well, bone-cutter, it’ll cost y’gold for that.”
By now idlers had gathered around to watch the confrontation. Some joked about the couple while they waited for the gold coin to be handed over—strangers were always frightened into paying.
“A solidus,” the man repeated, his face reddening and an edge of anger appearing in his voice.
Getorius ignored him and looked over his head at the nearest vendor to call out, “Where is the imperial mansio?”
The merchant, who saw this scene played out several times a day, grinned and pointed to a villa across the square. “Behind you, Surgeon.”
The ruffian glanced around, and pulled on the mare’s bridle to keep Getorius from turning the animal’s head.
“Let go of my horse,” Getorius ordered, as evenly as he could.
Hearing some of the bystanders laughing, the bully hesitated, realizing that the crowd had begun to side with this stranger, who seemed determined to call his bluff. The man spat nervously, released the bridle, and motioned to his companion. “Aw…let’s go eat.”
After the pair had skulked off into one of the side streets that led to the wharves, Getorius looked at Arcadia. “A bit foolish of me,” he admitted, “making enemies even before dismounting. That inn doesn’t look like much, but I’m not sure I want to go searching for another
