Placidia chose her private reception room for the meeting. The walls were decorated with paintings that were identical in design to some of the mosaic work in her mausoleum. Spaces between cedar ceiling beams had been painted with floral patterns on a lapis-blue background. Red and lapis border designs repeated the ribbon motif on the arch undersides in the smaller room. Centered in the panels were renderings of fruit baskets, urns and various birds—mallard ducks, doves and a rooster. The mosaic design of two pigeons on the rim of a water basin, against which a frustrated Placidia had flung her wine cup a few days earlier, had been cleaned.
Carpets that had covered the floor and walls of Ataulf’s tent when her Visigoth husband was on a campaign, were hung as backdrops for his war trophies. Statuary, part of his loot from the three-day pillage of Rome—in which Placidia herself had been one of the prizes—stood on pedestals along the wall. Other keepsakes from Gaul and Hispania, which had belonged to her second husband, Constantius, were displayed with them. Prominent on the wall behind the throne where Galla Placidia sat to receive important visitors was her monogram in gold tile work, a reminder of her position as the daughter of a former emperor and mother of the ruling Augustus. The effect of the room was intimidating, either by design, or simply because the mementos accumulated over a twenty-year span reflected the Gothic Queen’s incredible background and present imperial power.
Rabbi ben Zadok had not yet arrived when Getorius and Arcadia were shown into the room. Theokritos lay on a couch that had been brought in for him. A silver bowl, cup, and linen napkin were arranged on a table next to it. Several oil lamps illuminated the room, but a fire in a circular iron stove had done little to dissipate the damp chill that accompanied the rainy weather.
The old librarian seemed to be asleep. Arcadia thought he looked haggard and thin, with skin that stretched over his facial bones like a sausage casing. This alarmed her, but she assumed that Antioches was treating him. A strong aromatic smell came from a linen bag tied around his neck. Getorius nodded when she looked toward him. He too had recognized the pungent odor of camphor, a medication that was obtained from trees growing at the eastern limits of Roman trading routes, and much too expensive for him to prescribe. Next to the sachet hung the oval Abraxas amulet.
Theokritos coughed and roused himself to spit into the napkin, and Getorius recalled with an inward pang that there were several poisons that mimicked the symptoms of a severe phlegm imbalance.
Galla Placidia also looked exhausted. She had countered a pale complexion by rouging her cheeks almost to the henna shade of her hair, and wearing a white silk tunic. Getorius surmised that the deaths of Sigisvult and Renatus, combined with uncertainty over the papyri and her suspicions of Flavius Aetius, were causing her to awaken after too few hours of sleep. At least for the next month she had one less worry—Aetius was reported to be away at Mediolanum, inspecting the field legions stationed there.
Theokritos coughed again and opened his eyes, but seemed disoriented in the strange room. Arcadia came to him and said, “I’m sorry you’re not well. Would you like me…my husband…to examine you?”
Theokritos stared at her with eyes glazed by fever. “Antioches has done that,” he rasped.
“At least let the surgeon look at your throat,” Placidia suggested. “You sound like a carpenter’s scraper.”
“Antioches has seen it.”
“Antioches hasn’t the eyesight he had twenty years ago.”
Theokritos waved a hand in a weak gesture of impatience. “You didn’t bring me here to discuss my throat, Regina. Where is the Hebrew priest?”
“Ben Zadok was told to be here by the seventh hour.”
“Sir, how is your research on the papyrus fibers coming along?” Getorius asked.
“I was taken ill.” Theokritos did not elaborate.
“Librarian, we hope this Judean can be of help in evaluating the text itself, not only the material.” Placidia turned to Getorius. “I must tell you that Bishop Chrysologos hasn’t yet heard from that dead monk’s abbot at Autessiodurum.”
“The abbot himself wouldn’t come,” Getorius predicted, “the journey is difficult in winter, even for a courier. We’re not even sure that the one who was sent arrived in Gaul safely.”
“All this uncertainty,” Placidia complained. “The bishop expects instructions in a week or two, but with all this rain he was concerned that the monk’s body might be washed downstream to the sea. He ordered it brought to Ravenna.”
“Where is it…is Behan now?” Arcadia asked.
“In an ice storage room next to the palace kitchen. The cooking staff objects of course, but the bishop insisted. It will only be for a short time.”
“I hope the poor man can be laid to rest soon.” When Arcadia saw Theokritos trying to reach for his cup, she went to help him and managed to sniff the pinkish drink. It seemed to be only watered wine. After taking a few sips, Theokritos lay back on the pillows, exhausted by the small effort.
Placidia’s steward Magnaric rapped on the door, then entered with David ben Zadok.
Placidia stood to greet the old man out of respect for his position. “We are grateful you came, Rabbi. Is that your title?”
“The word may be translated as ‘teacher,’” Zadok replied, bowing slightly. “I hope to be worthy of it, Empress, and of your summons.”
“We knew your old acquaintance, Nicias of Alexandria.”
“The legion surgeon at Mogontiacum.” Zadok indicated Getorius with a hand. “He is responsible for this young man being here.”
“Yes, brought to Us in Ravenna.” Placidia smiled. “How truly unexplainable are God’s ways.”
“Indeed, ‘Who can know the mind of the Lord, or be His advisor?’” Zadok quoted. “The eternal question of the afflicted Job.”
“May I present my librarian, Theokritos,” Placidia continued, dropping the formal
