“Ah, the woman ‘surgeon’,” he said without concealing the sneer in his tone. “What are you doing here at night?”
“I…I was given permission to stay with my husband.”
Heraclius glanced around in mock surprise. “Your husband has strange bedroom arrangements. No, woman. Look at your wet shoes. Why were you in the ice storage room?”
Arcadia could think of nothing except to tell the truth. “I…I couldn’t let that poor monk be buried without…without suturing his wound closed.”
“You, a woman?” the eunuch’s companion snarled. “I am Brenos, abbot at Culdees. You dared touch the flesh of one of my holy men?”
“I…had already examined Behan with my husband, after he drowned.”
“And how did you enter tonight, to perform this charity?”
Heraclius’ question reminded Arcadia that she had not relocked the door. Under the circumstances a lie might be acceptable to Cosmas. “The door was unbolted,” she replied as evenly as possible. “Perhaps a…a slave was careless.”
“Perhaps, also, you will show the abbot and me the example of your brilliant needlework?” The eunuch’s voice had lost none of its sarcasm.
“Of…of course.”
At the ice room door, Heraclius grunted after he saw the bolt pushed to one side. Once inside, he pulled out the wooden pegs and eased aside the coffin lid.
One last favor, Cosmas, Arcadia silently prayed. Don’t let his light reveal a bulge in Behan’s abdomen.
While Heraclius held the lantern, Brenos moved aside the evergreen branches, then lifted the monk’s robe and peered underneath. He eyed the sewn-up wound a moment, gave a snort, and flipped down the material in a gesture of irritated frustration.
After forming a mental thanks to Cosmas, Arcadia exhaled quietly. As the abbot turned and stalked out of the room, she heard his sandals make an absurd squishing sound on the soggy pine needles and choked back a nervous laugh. Heraclius glared at her, then followed Brenos outside.
At the door Arcadia watched the two men disappear in the direction of the palace’s second story, where the library and hospital were located.
They’re looking for the papyri. If Heraclius is a partner in the conspiracy and is searching the palace, Behan made a poor choice in recruiting him. Placidia loathes the man and would never allow him in her private rooms, where he might expect the documents to be found. How ironic that a plan which probably took years to devise might fail by a matter of fractions of an hour.
When Arcadia eased herself into Getorius’ room, the twin-spouted oil lamp was burning, but Getorius was still asleep. She desperately wanted to call a servant and have hot water brought in—a bath was out of the question—but contented herself with rinsing her hands and bruised fingers in the icy water of the room’s bronze washbasin. She wiped them over and over again on a hand towel until their greasy feel was lessened, if not gone completely. The dank feel of the ice room and its smell of decay would take longer to leave her. Trembling from the strain of her ordeal, Arcadia lay down on the bed, pulling her cloak over herself. The movement woke her husband.
“Arcadia? Where have you been?” he demanded, sitting up and looking at her. “You’re dressed again and…and your shoes are soaking wet.”
“I went outside to look at the December stars,” she hedged, slipping her injured fingers under her cloak. “I met Heraclius with that abbot in the garden.”
“Heraclius? How would Heraclius know…what did I hear his name was, Brenos?”
“Yes, the abbot told me.”
“How would a holy man like Brenos know Valentinian’s castrated procurer?”
“Getorius. Don’t talk like that.”
“I don’t trust the man. Or what there is left of a man in Arcadia let the comment pass, but sat up on the edge of the bed, laid aside her cloak and removed the wet boots. “We guessed that there had to be accomplices in the palace, Getorius. Who better than Heraclius, who must have a passkey to every room? Both were headed toward the library.”
“They probably ransacked Theokritos’ room and his office. We are fortunate that Charadric got there first.” Getorius looked over at the tabletop. “Arcadia, where is the case…the two papyri?”
“Y…you said you’d trust me, Getorius.”
“They aren’t here? Arcadia, what have you done? You can’t just destroy them.”
“I’ve promised not to,” she snapped and slipped down under the blanket. “I’m tired. May I get some sleep now?”
Getorius shrugged. The smell of their lovemaking was still in the bed, but was now augmented by an inexplicable scent of spices. Why destroy that pleasant memory with an argument? He lay down beside his wife and slipped an arm over her shoulder.
Just before the dawn watch, Charadric rapped at the door. Arcadia would have to leave until the order for Getorius’ release came through.
She combed her hair before going outside. Behan’s funeral was only a few hours away. Would anyone have occasion to open the coffin again before that?
“I’ll let you know what happens at Behan’s funeral,” she told her husband, then hurried out before he could notice the bruises on her fingers. him.”
Chapter twenty-four
At the second hour after sunrise on December twenty-fourth, Getorius answered a knock on the door of the room where he was confined. Heraclius stood outside, together with a gaunt man who looked seriously ill.
“Surgeon,” the eunuch said in his high-pitched, womanish voice, “this is Brenos, from the monastery of Culdees. The abbot is ill from his winter journey. His right side is especially tender.”
“Then he should see Antioches. I have no medical supplies here.”
“Surgeon, you must examine him,” Heraclius insisted, pushing his way into the room. “Brenos is to give the eulogy for his dead monk, Behan, this morning. Prescribe a potion for the abbot’s fever.”
“Very well. Abbot,
