Magnaric glanced over at the figure on the bed, signed himself with a cross, and murmured in Gothic, “Atta, wairthai wilja theins…Father, thy will be done.”
“Steward”—Brenos slipped a silver coin from his belt purse— “tell the Queen about the librarian’s death for me. I…I must get back to the bishop’s residence immediately.”
In his room, as Brenos’ feelings of tension eased gradually, he laughed aloud. It was a manifestation of nervousness, yet, strangely, also of relief, when he realized that the premature discovery of the Nazarene’s will might actually work to the advantage of the Gallican League.
The second phase of the plot—determining the authenticity of the two papyri—was well under way, accomplished, in fact. A respected Greek scholar, the librarian to the Western Augustus, had studied and tested the documents and pronounced them authentic. There would be further debate, of course. Sixtus III, the Bishop of Rome, would call together secret councils in the Lateran Palace, but the weight of evidence was on their side and the endorsement of the emperor was already in. Brenos was confident that the pontiff could not delay making the will public any longer than the start of the forty-day penitential season in late winter—exactly as the League had anticipated.
A rap at the door interrupted Brenos’ musings. When he opened it, one of the bishop’s servants handed him a note. He told the man to wait, then went back in, standing at the far side of the room, near a window. He tore at the red wax seal, destroying some of the signet image in his eagerness to anticipate the contents.
After reading a moment he murmured, “Praise the Nazarene, the message is from Smyrna. I’m to be in the narthex of the Basilica of the Holy Cross, next to Galla Placidia’s mausoleum, at the tenth hour this afternoon. A carriage will meet me and drive me to an estate outside Ravenna called the Villa of the Red Rooster.” Brenos chuckled at the apt name, then pieced enough of the crumbling wax back together to make out the symbol of a cockerel.
The abbot had no response for the servant to take back, but before dismissing him, ordered the man to bring him an armful of fresh yew branches.
Chapter twenty
On the same afternoon that the death of Theokritos was reported to Galla Placidia, Getorius, confined in the room assigned to him, heard the clack of hob-nailed boots in the corridor outside. He sat up from the bed, where he had been reading what the ancient Greek historian Herodotus said about embalming methods, wondering if there had been some new development in his case. Would he be freed? He heard the bolt slide through its retaining brackets, then Charadric swung open the door. A ruddy-faced Flavius Aetius stood at the jamb, in a swirl of cold air from the garden.
“Commander…” Getorius set his book aside and stood up. “I…I’m honored.”
Aetius dismissed the compliment with a wave of his hand, then turned and spoke in Hunnic to a man with oriental features who accompanied him. The guard sheathed his curved sword and took a position by the open door.
“My bodyguard, Kursich, is my left hand,” Aetius explained. “I remembered you, Surgeon, from that unfortunate dinner where I made a fool of myself. Thought I’d ask you a few questions about why you’re here.”
“I’m grateful. Please sit down, although I must apologize—my borrowed furnishings are somewhat spartan.”
Aetius grunted his thanks, and dropped heavily into the room’s only chair. He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “I do feel tired, like an old pack mule after a season’s campaign.”
Getorius guessed that the commander must be aged around forty, but sixteen years of fighting against barbarians and potential usurpers in Africa, Gaul and Italy had aged him; he looked at least a decade older. Aetius wore a new pair of heavy field boots, but had set aside his worn campaign uniform for a tunic of fine wool that was belted at the waist with a silver-inlaid leather belt. A curved dagger of Hunnic design hung from it. The enameled gold pendant around his neck portrayed one of the mounted Asiatic warriors, a not-so-subtle reminder to Galla Placidia that fourteen years earlier, he had enlisted sixty thousand loyal Huns as allies to depose the usurper John. The army had arrived too late, but the warriors had frightened Placidia enough for her to bribe them to return home, and to reluctantly accept Aetius into her service.
All Ravenna knew that the commander had been appointed consul twice, and that Valentinian had recently awarded him the rank of Patrician. Even though he was Supreme Army Commander, citizens had begun to refer to him as “The Emperor’s Patrician.”
“You’re just back from inspecting your field legions?” Getorius asked.
Aetius nodded. “Between here and Mediolanum. Rain the whole time, but with Carthage in Vandal hands our men needed a boost in morale. I convinced the Augustus to distribute his New Year bonus to them early.”
“That should help.”
“Hopefully. I’m also trying to mitigate some of the bad feeling against our Goths that still exists in the area.”
“Ever since Flavius Stilicho was murdered and the families of his allies slaughtered afterward?”
“You do know your history, Surgeon, that was over thirty years ago.” Aetius bent to brush away dried mud on the toe of one boot, then looked up at Getorius. “I have a better understanding of barbarians than anyone since that unfortunate commander. As a child I lived among Huns as their hostage. Stilicho was betrayed and murdered after being promised asylum.”
“Lured outside of a church here in Ravenna and killed.” Getorius understood why Aetius had not forgotten the man who had held the same post as supreme army commander—their positions were similar.
“The most stupid thing Emperor Honorius ever did,” Aetius went on. “It’s probably human nature that Stilicho would have liked to see his son made Augustus, as his enemies claimed, but his truly
