Lately, Arcadia had come to feel that Ravenna was like that, a city only seemingly secure behind its protective ring of walls and swamps. She feared that one day it would be jolted by the reality of barbarian—even internal—enemies, who could destroy a world that had been secure as recently as her father’s childhood, less than fifty years earlier.
In a short time the warmth gave way to sleepiness. Arcadia let go, passed Getorius his wine to finish, and climbed out of the pool. As she helped him dry his back, her momentary tranquility was upset by thoughts of the dead hermit. Why had Behan come to the Western capital from the most remote edge of the world? At the same time she began to feel curious about his Celtic manuscripts. What might they say?
There was also the matter of Galla Placidia’s letter. It would have to be dealt with in the morning, at breakfast, before the clinic opened.
Chapter three
Getorius felt nervous as he watched his wife slide a silver knife blade under Galla Placidia’s wax seal and work it loose from the note’s vellum flap. What might the Empress Mother and the Emperor want from him?
Despite the soak and brief lovemaking in the warmth of the pool, Getorius had not slept well. The dead monk and putting off reading the unexpected letter cluttered his mind, yet it was usually he, not his wife, who postponed facing things that could possibly be unpleasant.
“There, the seal’s broken.” Arcadia handed him the note.
After Getorius read a few lines, his frown of concern dissolved. “It’s an invitation to the palace for a dinner,” he said in a tone of mixed surprise and relief.
“Really? Let me see.” Arcadia scanned the text. “It looks like an early style of writing. ‘In honor of the Fourteenth Anniversary of the elevation of the Illustrious Flavius Placidius Valentinianus III to Augustus, and the Second of his Marriage to Licinia Eudoxia, Augusta.’”
“Why are we being invited?” Getorius asked.
“I have no idea, but the dinner is on the ides of November.”
“The ides? The day hasn’t been called that since the first Theodosius ordained a seven-day week.”
“I think it’s either the thirteenth or fifteenth of the month. And listen to this,” Arcadia continued, “Placidia wants to pretend we’re living in the days of our ancient Republic. She’s asking us to dress accordingly.”
“As Romans did four hundred years ago?”
“Presumably.” Arcadia laughed at her first thought. “At least I won’t have to compete with one of Placidia’s elaborate silk tunics. We’ll need to look at statues in the old senate house to get your toga right, but they don’t portray women there. I’ll have to have an idea of what to wear and how Silvia should do my hair.”
“Will we lie down on couches to eat?” Getorius scoffed. “What is Placidia thinking?”
“Nostalgia, who knows? She lists the other guests, nine people in all, the way banquets were back then.”
“Who are they?”
“Let me see…” Arcadia read a moment. “We should be flattered to be included. Besides the Augustus and Augusta, there’ll be the archdeacon—”
“Surrus Renatus. We were talking about him yesterday.”
“Also Flavius Aetius and Theokritos.”
“Good. At least I’ll be able to talk to the librarian.”
“Placidia’s architect, Sigisvult.” Arcadia looked up. “We know him, he’s been your patient.”
“Perhaps he’ll tell us about the mausoleum he just designed for her. Who else?’
“Just the two of us. That makes nine.”
“Pelagia, Aetius’ wife, isn’t included?”
“Getorius,” Arcadia reminded him, “you know Placidia doesn’t like her because she’s not Roman. Restricting the dinner to nine people is another excuse for the Gothic Queen not to invite Pelagia.”
“Gothic Queen. I haven’t heard that title used in a while.” Getorius chuckled at the reference to Placidia’s marriage to a Visigoth king, after she had been captured in Rome, twenty-nine years earlier. “Still, excuse or not, Arcadia, it’s an insult to the commander. Again, why include us?”
“Placidia has her eye on you,” she teased, reaching across the table to tousle his hair. “You’ll be appointed palace surgeon yet.”
“More likely, the Augustus has his eye on you,” Getorius retorted, smoothing his hair back in place. “You know his reputation for womanizing…”
Silvia came in to ask if they wanted to have anything more for breakfast.
“Nothing.” Arcadia glanced at her husband’s empty plate. “You haven’t eaten a thing, Getorius. Stay here, I’ll see who’s waiting at the clinic.”
“I am a bit hungry now that I know the note wasn’t bad news. If someone is there, take a urine sample and check for humor imbalances. I’ll be in shortly.”
After Arcadia left, he munched on some olives and looked through the glass-paned doors of the dining room. November’s morning fog blurred the bare garden trees, but he could hear the splash of the fountain through the mist.
Arcadia’s mention of Nicias yesterday had brought to the surface memories of the old surgeon to whom he owed everything. Fortune had indeed smiled on him at Mount Genevris, the pass through the Cottian Alps from Gaul to Italy, where they had met Galla Placidia and her husband Ataulf’s Visigoth tribe who had happened to be crossing in the opposite direction. Placidia, from concern for Nicias and his four-year-old ward, had given him her signet ring as an introduction to her half-brother Honorius, the Western Roman Emperor at Ravenna.
Talk about good fortune. Now I’m being invited to dinner with the Gothic Queen. Getorius took up the invitation list again. Sigisvult had a background similar to his own. Placidia had brought him to Ravenna after Ataulf’s murder and her subsequent ransom. She had fostered the youth into a local family, where he had trained as an architect, and she had recently entrusted him with the design for her family mausoleum.
When he came to the librarian’s name Getorius muttered aloud, “If I don’t have patients this afternoon, I want to show Theokritos those manuscripts.”
He liked—no, respected—the white-haired scholar who had been born in Athens. Greek was Theokritos’ native language, but he was fluent in Latin and could translate enough words
