Arcadia read the inscription’s greenish, bronze letters. “The temple was dedicated to Neptune and Mercurius by Tiberius Caesar,” she informed her husband.
“Guardians of the sea and commerce.” Getorius pointed to an offering of wheat stalks lying on the chipped altar in front. “Pagans still worship here. Whoever is presbyter in Classis hasn’t been able to persuade everyone in his flock to throw the old gods into the harbor. That building across the way is probably the Curia, where the plaque with the map should be.”
They crossed via a path separating harvested gardens that were planted among the ruins of other structures. As Getorius had guessed, a marble slab was mounted to the right of the doorway.
“This is recent,” Getorius noted, after checking the diagram etched on its face. “Valentinian is given credit, but it was put up by Aetius in his second consulship. That was…only two years ago.”
“Does it give street names?”
“Yes. Let’s see…we’re in the forum. That should be the Via Adriatico leading down to the docks.”
“It is,” Arcadia said. “I can see ships at anchor and a glimpse of the sea. Is there a Street of the Judeans, or something similar?”
Getorius read off the streets going east, “Of the Thracians… Dacians…Macedonians. Here, Vicus Judaeorum.”
Arcadia noticed a crude six-pointed star scratched near the street name, two triangles with one reversed and superimposed on the other. “What’s that symbol?”
“I think it’s the emblem of David, the Hebrew king, but this one is meant as a threat. Some Christians see it as a desecration of the Trinity because the inverted triangle cancels out their symbol. That’s not the only disrespect. See that building on the left side?”
Arcadia looked at the diagram labeled ECCLESIA ARIANORVM. “That’s across from the inn. I thought it looked like a church.”
“Yes, but Arian. Someone has scratched Hairetikos over it, ‘Heretics’ in Greek.”
Arcadia shuddered and grasped her husband’s arm. “Let’s find Rabbi Zadok. I don’t think I want to spend much time in Classis.”
After walking past the streets he had named, Getorius found the one leading to the Judean quarter, but looking around, he was puzzled. The area was empty of people, with shops shuttered as if no one lived there, and yet the smell of hot food indicated there were inhabitants. He wondered if the place was under a quarantine imposed by port authorities. Seaborne diseases were common where galleys came in from distant countries.
“Wait here,” he told Arcadia, then crossed the Armini to ask a lone woman filling a jug at a fountain about the lack of activity. When he came back, he explained, “she says it’s the Hebrews’ Sabbath. No one is allowed to work, so nothing is open.”
“Will the rabbi see us?”
“She said that the synagogue is three blocks down the Judaeorum. Look for a building on the right that resembles a temple.”
The place of worship was easy to pick out from among the apartments. Situated near the south wall, the synagogue was set back from the street, with an entrance facing southeast, toward Jerusalem. The front resembled that of a Roman temple, with steps that led to a shallow colonnaded porch whose entablature was interrupted by a central semi-circular arch. The building was faced with Tibertine marble, and streaked by black weather stains. A walled, paved fore-court separated the structure from the street.
Several bearded men sat on the synagogue steps. They wore turban-like hats and fringed shawls thrown over dark, skirted jackets that half-covered baggy trousers tucked into felt boots. The group had been engaged in a lively discussion, but fell silent when they noticed the couple walking toward them. It was obvious from their dress that they were not Judeans.
Getorius motioned for Arcadia to stay back, and approached the men through an ironwork gate. “My pardon for interrupting you,” he called out. “I was told I could find David ben Zadok here.”
No one replied until one man who looked to be the oldest in the group stood up. “I am Mordecai ben Asher,” he said. “Rav Zadok is preparing for the afternoon service. Why do you wish to see him? Who are you?”
“Getorius Asterius, a surgeon from Ravenna. That’s my wife back there. She trains with me to be a medica. My…my father knew the rabbi.” He unfolded his pass. “I have an authorization from the Augustus.”
Mordecai came and studied the parchment without touching it. “This has the signet of his mother. What is your business with the Rav?”
“Confidential, sir, and urgent,” he replied. “I didn’t realize it was your holy day.”
“Is this a matter of life and death?” one of the men called out.
“You could say so,” Getorius replied. “Yes, definitely.”
He heard the men discuss his reply in a guttural language he assumed was Hebrew.
Mordecai joined in briefly then turned. “The mother of the Augustus would not have given her blessing to you unless the matter was important. I will take you to Rav Zadok. He has a little time before prayers.”
Mordecai led the way to an apartment across the narrow street. After Getorius rapped on the door with a bronze knocker in the shape of a lion’s head, a youth opened the portal.
Mordecai spoke to him in Greek, but Getorius understood enough to know the servant was told who he was, and that his business was urgent enough for ben Zadok to see a Gentile on the Sabbath.
The building’s vestibule was paved in a mosaic design that depicted a candelabrum with seven branches, and other figures Getorius did not recognize. After he and Arcadia were shown into a reception room, Mordecai disappeared down the corridor.
The smell of fish being cooked nearby wafted into the anteroom, but the odor was not strong enough to completely overpower a pleasant scent of incense. While
