“Sir, there are laws to protect you,” Getorius objected.
“Laws are the first casualties in war,” Zadok scoffed. He stood up, rubbed his eyes and sighed. “This is not the conversation I expected, Getorius, when your name was brought to me. I….I must prepare for the afternoon service.”
“Of course, sir. We’ll go now.”
“At evening prayers tonight, when we say Havdalah, the prayer that marks the conclusion of Shabbat,” Zadok said, choosing his words carefully, “I will pray that the creative work we begin after every Shabbat rest will be fruitful in solving this problem. I would like to return to Ravenna with you and examine the document.”
“Yes,” Arcadia quickly agreed. “Please stay with us at our villa.”
Zadok shook his head. “There is a small Judean community there. I will lodge with them.” He came around his desk and put an arm around Getorius “You may not know this, but your father and I helped solve a series of murders at Mogontiacum. A treasonable attempt to set up a separatist province.”
“I didn’t know. Perhaps you could tell us the story on our way back.”
“Perhaps. The Augustus…Honorius…awarded us a golden crown.” Zadok’s smile of recollection faded. “Now we have this new mystery for Treverius’ son to solve.”
“What time shall I pick you up in the morning, sir? We’re staying at the government mansio near the Ravenna Gate.”
“By the third hour. We should not delay.”
“We’ll look forward to the journey with you.”
Getorius was silent on the walk back to the inn. His excitement at the possibility of learning more about his father was tempered by Zadok’s prediction of civil chaos. Surely the forgers of the will realized that this would happen. Why would they want to create such a catastrophe?
Blussus had set up a room for them on the second story of the east wing. Its single window overlooked the garden and gave a view of the shipyards in the hazy distance. The wind had shifted again, coming in from the east and sending inland blackish smoke from tarring ovens, to merge with the low clouds that threatened rain by evening.
Arcadia was pleased with the room, but hoped the bitumen smell would not overpower the taste of Blussus’ food. Cramps in her abdomen had subsided and she felt better. Looking down into the garden, she saw a slave clearing away dead weeds and raking the soil smooth. It seemed Blussus was still convinced that Getorius was there to inspect the mansio and report on its condition. Good. Service should be better.
Blussus served his meals in a large room near the kitchen. The murals on the walls suggested that this might have been the original owner’s study. Arcadia identified some of the scenes as the ships embarking for Troy described in the Iliad. The naval theme was consistent with a shipbuilder’s interest.
Businessmen who looked wealthy enough to eat wherever they wished occupied nine tables in the room. Blussus evidently spent most of his imperial stipend on food—as his own ample frame testified. The other diners gave Getorius and Arcadia a couple of cursory glances, but none were interested in the couple and they all went back to talking in low tones. One man ate alone, a swarthy, bearded fellow, whom Getorius guessed to be Syrian.
The meal was better than they expected. Grilled sea crayfish preceded a pan omelet of salt fish and cheese, without the cumin seasoning being overpowering. Stewed fruits made up the sweet course.
Despite his harassment at the gate by the two ruffians, Getorius was determined to see the harbor. Arcadia went with him, although she would rather have stayed out of the freshening wind and read a chapter in her volume of Soranus.
The Vicus Porti, across from the mansio, led to the docks. It went past the Arian church, where more graffiti condemning the sect’s teaching that Christ was not co-eternal with the Father was charcoaled on its walls. Few people were on the streets in the inclement weather, but Arcadia expected to run into the two thugs in every shop she passed.
At the harbor, a bridge leading to an island was cordoned off and patrolled by guards. Several low-lying war galleys were moored at the curved wharf, being outfitted with new masts. Others in dry-dock ramps across the bay were being equipped with bronze rams salvaged from older vessels. A crew of conscripts sat on benches, straining at long, unfamiliar oars to master the rowing cadences of the hortator’s hammer signals. Getorius thought them a pitifully small force to oppose barbarians who had defeated Roman armies in Gaul and Hispania, then crossed the Iberian straits and conquered Carthage.
A misty rain began to fall as the couple strolled along the commercial anchorage, where a few high-sterned merchant galleys bobbed empty at their moorings. With the loss of the African provinces their grain and olive oil supplies would no longer be shipped to Italy, and most of the Egyptian harvests would go to Constantinople.
On a wharf at the end of the Via Adriatico they watched a man in a wagon dole out free loaves of bread to citizens who held out tokens. He seemed to have enough for now, but the interrupted wheat supply could mean famine—and rioting—when the ration was gone.
When Getorius stopped at a tavern to buy cups of hot mulled wine, Arcadia said she thought she saw the Syrian from the inn following them at a distance. Getorius laughed and pointed out that the docks were full of such Eastern types, but she insisted he take her back to their lodgings.
By the time the couple reached the Via Armini again, a chill drizzle that smelled of bitumen and the sea was driving in from the direction of the Adriatic. Sunset came early, so the rainy afternoon was almost dark by the time Getorius and Arcadia went to their room.
Blussus had closed the shutters against the blowing rain,
