The Cybelene Conspiracy

by Albert Noyer

  Arcadia turned away to look for the Cybele again. She finally spotted Virilo’s galley at a berthing on the south end of the wharf. A bronze plaque at the bow, with the name KYBHH in Greek, identified the boat, as well as a sculpted head of the Phrygian goddess. The hull was painted a dull brown, with a contrasting stripe of sea-green along the upper strake. A subdued color scheme, Arcadia reflected, compared to the bright yellow and blue of some of the other galleys. She walked closer, noting that the smooth sweep of curve from bow to stern contradicted the reputation for clumsiness that dogged merchant galleys. Under full sail, and with oarsmen pulling at the six ports in the hull, she guessed the Cybele might even be able to outrun a war galley.

  A large passenger cabin structure on the aft deck indicated that Virilo collected additional fees by taking travelers to the Dalmatian mainland opposite Italy.

  Cybele. Why did Virilo use that pagan name for his galley? Arcadia’s tutor had taught her that the Asian goddess was popular in Rome long ago, but she recalled nothing about the cult. It was surely prohibited now, like that of Isis, but Bishop Chrysologos had trouble enforcing the ban on pagan rites in the port quarter. Just as the Isis priests had done, those of Cybele might be attempting to revive worship of the goddess. Strange. Virilo had not seemed to be the type of man who would have nostalgia for pagan deities.

  At the wharfside, stevedores had finished unloading Cybele’s cargo of wine amphorae from one gangplank. At the other, workers carried bales of wool or slim clay jars into the hold for the outbound journey. As Arcadia approached she noticed that the air was overly fragrant with a pungent spicy smell, then saw that it came from a load of peppercorns scattered on the paving, amid the shards of a broken amphora. Virilo, red-faced, was angrily trying to block two urchins who were working as a team to scoop up as many of the black pellets as they could.

  A loud whimper of pain came from the shadow of the warehouse portico. Arcadia looked in that direction and saw one man beating another with his fists, a slave probably. The blows seemed to be viciously out of proportion to the value of the cheap broken jar, and despite what the boys might be able to filch, most of the spilled peppercorns could be recovered. Her anger flared, but she hesitated to interfere. Although the bishop occasionally asked for donations to replenish a fund that bought freedom for old or sick slaves, she knew the Church accepted slavery as part of the social order. In one of his letters, Paul advised slaves to obey their masters as a way of serving Christ, yet had also warned owners to give up using violence against them.

  Her remembrance of the Apostle’s admonition prompted Arcadia to finally protest. “Stop that man from hitting the slave,” she called out to Virilo. “Stop him!”

  The two boys paused to watch this potential confrontation between a woman and the galley owner. Virilo scowled at Arcadia, but evidently remembered her as the surgeon’s wife and signaled his cargo master to halt the beating.

  “Quite right, my dear,” someone behind her agreed. “No man should treat another that way. Not even a slave.”

  Arcadia recognized the voice and turned to Publius Maximin. “Senator. I…I suppose I shouldn’t have interfered, but—”

  “No, no. I don’t allow such mistreatment in my warehouse.” Maximin pulled Arcadia back by the arm to let two men carrying a broom and empty amphora pass. “Get all the corns,” he ordered them without releasing his hold on her.

  “I remember now,” Arcadia said. “The other night, at Faustina’s, you told us you leased the Cybele.”

  “Indeed.” Maximin released her arm to bend down and picked up a lead seal from the broken jar. “P. MAXM, my mark. Pepper, sweet Macedonian wine, and oil shipped from Dalmatia in exchange for wool and Tuscan wines.”

  “I thought you raised chickens on your farm,” Arcadia said, recalling the few days she had spent there in December, and the unending smell of chicken dung.

  “My dear,” Maximin said with an indulgent smirk, “pepper prices have soared ever since Alaric demanded four thousand pounds of the spice as part of a bribe not to attack Rome. The market has been depleted since then, and I’ve contracted to be the only supplier to Ravenna. Enormous profits to be made.” He edged closer and chuckled. “And the smell is nicer than that of a chicken yard. Perhaps I could let that husband of yours in on the investment possibilities.”

  “Getorius is happy with his medicines, Senator.”

  “Then he misses an opportunity.” Maximin beckoned her away from the clean up. “What brings you to this sordid part of Ravenna, my dear? Is someone ill?”

  How much could she tell him? The senator had been indirectly connected with the death of a visiting abbot in December but, through his influence in the court of Valentinian, had avoided serious questioning at the time. The matter had been dropped.

  “I’m looking for Claudia, Virilo’s daughter,” she told him. “The poor girl suffers from epilepsia.”

  “The falling sickness? I didn’t know.”

  “Virilo has probably kept it secret, but my husband wants his permission to treat her.”

  “I have seen Claudia,” he said. “The mind of a child. A nurse is always with her at his villa.”

  Not all the time. He obviously doesn’t know Claudia is pregnant. The man sweeping the peppercorns was prodding the two boys away when they suddenly looked beyond him, bolted up, and scampered to the end of the warehouse. Arcadia heard the rhythmic clack of nail-studded boot soles on the paving stones and turned. Four guards, led by a tribune, halted at his command on the edge of the spilled pepper. Leudovald was with them.

  “Galleymaster,” he called to Virilo, “this tribune wants a word with you.”

  The officer unrolled a small scroll and read, “‘To Gaius Quintus Virilo, Master of the galley Cybele.”

  “Yes, th…that’s who I am.”

  “By order of the Judicial Magistrate you are ordered to come with us for questioning in the death of the slave Atlos.”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” Virilo protested.

  “My orders are to bring you to the magistrate,” the tribune replied, rolling up the parchment.

  “Tribune, this is ridiculous,” Maximin intervened. “I lease this man’s galley. The Cybele is to leave for Dalmatia in the morning.”

  “Senator, I…I have my orders,” the officer stammered. “It’s not my decision.” Arcadia guessed that the tribune had recognized Maximin and knew that his senatorial influence could have him transferred from the capital to the most distant outpost on any of the Roman frontiers.

  “Of course, Tribune.” Maximin softened his tone. “Virilo, I’ll speak to the magistrate. Cybele will hoist anchor on schedule, with you as master. Very well, Tribune, do your duty.”

  After Virilo was marched away in the custody of the guards, Leudovald sauntered toward Arcadia. “Domina,” he said with a measure of sarcasm in his voice, “I thought slaves, not mistresses, soiled their hands at the marketplace.”

  “I came to look for Claudia.”

  “For Claudia. Not for a golden sickle?”

  Arcadia ignored his taunt. “My husband thinks he can help her epilepsia.”

  “Epilepsia. You obviously don’t know that your husband was called to the palace. One of the pigment makers in the bookbindery is ill. Why are you missing an important part of your medica training?”

  “I…I’ll see if he needs help,” Arcadia mumbled. When no one had come to the clinic that morning, she had decided to look for Claudia. She turned back to Maximin. “Senator, my husband and I are looking in on Faustina during the fifth hour. How was she this morning?”

  “I haven’t been over there yet,” he admitted.

  “She should have been able to sleep. I’d better see if my husband needs me.”

  “Then, vale, farewell for now.” Maximin squeezed Arcadia’s hands between his. “I’m still trying to convince my wife Prisca to let you examine her.”

  “I…it would be an honor, Senator.” With a glance at Leudovald, who stoo
d by with a smirk beneath his mustache, Arcadia turned toward the Vicus Longus to reach the Via Honorius and the palace. Strange that the senator isn’t more concerned about his niece, she thought. For all his outward charm it seems he’s merely a self-centered opportunist. Could…could he have called Getorius to treat his niece just to find out what he knew about the dead youth in the church?

  The narrow street was filled with the noise and smells of shops and vendors’ stalls. Cackling poultry stared in their stupid, wide-eyed way from wicker cages, next to fish vendors hoping to sell the night’s catch before the day became too warm. At the Via Armini, Arcadia skirted a crew of slaves in a pit of foul, stinking water. They were struggling to repair a clay sewer line, which connected to the main culvert that emptied into the harbor. Further on, near the wooden bridge that spanned the Padenna River, she paused to watch children playing in the street, dodging around carts and chasing hoops or tossing leather balls. But it was the nearby women who interested her most, especially those who looked pregnant or nursed infants at their breasts. She knew there were competent midwives available for those who could afford to hire them, yet too many pregnant women had to rely on friends when it was time for the delivery of their child. After discovering the shocking number of children who died in childbirth, or during their first year, Arcadia had approached Getorius about setting up a clinic to treat only women. Even though she had argued that she would hire the best midwives in Ravenna, he had put her off by saying that she was not experienced enough. He was undoubtedly correct, yet he also constantly found himself coming up against diseases or injuries he had never treated before. She wondered if he might not be facing such a case at that moment with the sick pigment maker.

  Arcadia turned left into the Via Honorius and saw the twin corner towers of Lauretum Palace three blocks distant. The foundations of the emperors’ residence had been laid out thirty-eight years earlier by Valentinian’s half-uncle Honorius, after he had made Ravenna the capital of the Western empire. Honorius had ordered a forest of laurel trees planted around the building, perhaps hoping that the sweet-smelling leaves, long associated with victory wreaths, would help restore the harried fortunes of the Romans in the West.

  Arcadia had heard that the architect had been influenced by Diocletian’s palace at Spalato in Dalmatia, but adapting the grand scale of the late emperor’s building to what he could build using Honorius’s shrunken revenues had challenged his design skills. Like Spalato, the front of Lauretum was divided into arcades, but they were only half the length of those on Diocletian’s palace and made of brick instead of stone. Valentinian had begun to face the brick with Travertine marble, but Galla Placidia ordered the work stopped, to concentrate funds on embellishing the interior apartments with mosaic works similar to those she had seen at Constantinople.

  Arcadia approached the front entrance, which led past reception rooms into an atrium with a central pool for collecting rainwater. The Imperial apartments were on the north side, and the state dining room, tax office, and Scholarian guard barracks were on the other. Citizens on business were quickly escorted through the corridor, although many hoped to catch a glimpse of the emperor or his mother in a side hallway.

  Arcadia had been in Galla Placidia’s private reception room, but few citizens saw the family quarters. Those fortunate enough to have done so returned with descriptions of the splendid mosaics. Scenes from Valentinian’s life depicted him being proclaimed Caesar at age five, Augustus at six, and being married in Constantinople to Eudoxia when he was eighteen. He was also shown at state functions with his mother, his sister, Justa Honoria, and his cousin Theodosius, the Eastern emperor.

  At the entrance steps, Arcadia waved to one of the Frankish sentries she knew. Charadric nodded her in. After Getorius was appointed palace physician, entering Lauretum had not been a problem.

  She found her husband in the office of the Library Master. The previous librarian had died in December and a new curator had not yet been appointed. Getorius was standing in front of a seated worker whose leather apron was stained with vomit. When Arcadia entered, the pale man glanced up with a listless stare. Getorius turned.

  “Arcadia. I’m glad you’re here. This man…Maros…makes the white pigment used in painting designs on manuscripts. He’s been experimenting with different concentrations of vinegar to transform the lead into powder.” Getorius looked toward a gaunt man standing well away from the sick man. “Ursio, isn’t that what you told me?”

  The pigment shop master nodded. Getorius checked Maros’s sallow skin condition again, recalling what he had been shown of the pigment-making process when he was under house arrest in December. Coils of lead were suspended over vinegar inside a pot that was buried in manure. Heat and acrid fumes converted the metal into a white powder.

  “Can you feel this?” Getorius asked, pinching Maros’s knobby fingers.

  Maros gave a non-committal shrug.

  “I’ve seen these symptoms in workers at the foundry where lead water pipes are made,” Getorius recalled. “Ursio, you’ll have to give Maros other work. He won’t get any better if he stays here.”

  “Is…is it like the plague?”

  “An excess of acid caused an imbalance in his body,” Arcadia broke in. “It won’t affect you.”

  Getorius said nothing. His wife was sometimes given to a hasty diagnosis, but she was probably correct this time.

  “Can’t you treat the acid imbalance with honey?” Ursio asked. “Don’t you have a lot of sick vinegar makers?”

  “No,” Getorius admitted, “and that’s the puzzling thing. In fact, they seem unusually healthy.”

  “Yet you said Maros won’t get better,” Ursio insisted.

  Getorius shrugged. “Let me see where he works.”

  After Ursio led the way to a corner of the pigment shop, his stained workers gathered around to watch. “Take the top off that barrel,” he ordered the nearest man. After the lid was removed, the putrid odor of manure and acrid vinegar fumes filled the air.

  “Last winter, when it got so cold,” Ursio explained, “Maros wanted to bring his dung barrel out of a courtyard shed and inside.”

  “The stink made us all sick,” the lid-lifter said, holding his nose and making a face.

  “I can see why.” Getorius indicated a perforated clay lid jutting out of the slimy mass. “Let me look inside that pot.”

  Ursio nodded to the worker, who muttered under his breath but pushed away the manure with one hand until the top was clear, and opened the jar.

  When Getorius bent down, the strong fumes made him gag and his eyes sting. Through tears he made out a coil of whitish powder lying on a shelf molded into the pot’s side. Vinegar glistened with a metallic sheen on the bottom.

  “That’s our white pigment,” Ursio said, pointing to the powder inside the jar.

  Getorius wet an index finger, dipped it into the whiteness and tasted the residue. It was neither bitter nor sweet, but did leave a metallic taste in his mouth, as if he had pressed his tongue against a copper dish. Someone handed him a cup of watered wine. He rinsed his mouth and spit into the manure.

  “Put the barrel back outside, and send Maros home. I’ll try to help him, but he must stay away from here.”

  After Ursio grunted agreement, his men broke into smiles. The obnoxious barrel and the sick man were no longer a problem.

  On the way out Getorius paused in the palace garden with Arcadia to breathe in some fresh air and dispel the aftertaste of metal and vinegar in his throat.

  “It will take all day to clear that out of my humors,” he complained. “What did you think?”

  “After you said the powder tasted metallic, I had second thoughts.”

  “Not a vinegar imbalance? You smelled the fumes, and the white lead residue was relatively tasteless.”

  “But that’s the only other component,” Arcadia contended. “You said yourself that vinegar makers are healthy, while lead workers exhibit similar symptoms.”


  Getorius sighed. “Perhaps I can learn something from treating Maros. Where were you earlier?”

  “At the port.” Arcadia grasped his sleeve. “Virilo has been brought in for questioning, and Leudovald implied that you would be next.”

  “The sickle versus the fishing knife.” Getorius pointed across the garden to the room in the palace where he had been confined in December. “If Leudovald decides I’m lying and arrests me, I won’t have those quarters this time. What were you doing at the port?”

  “Don’t be upset. I was looking for Claudia.”

  “Claudia? I don’t think we should interfere in the affair. Examining Atlos should have been the end of it.”

  “I thought I might convince Claudia’s father to let you treat her. I ran into Senator Maximin. Remember he told us he leases Virilo’s galley? He imports pepper through Dalmatia.”

  “Pepper is worth more than its weight in gold these days.”

  “So the Senator told me. He’s going to use his influence to get Virilo released because the Cybele is to sail in the morning.”

  Getorius frowned. “That will leave Leudovald free to question me. Even if he thinks the galleymaster killed Atlos, he must realize that Virilo wouldn’t commit the murder by himself. He’d pay someone to do it. I wonder if Leudovald has questioned Thecla yet?”

  “I’d almost forgotten about her. Poor old woman.”

  “She—or I—will be next on his list. And even Claudia.” Getorius fell silent. Leudovald seemed the kind of man who would bring charges against a suspect just to impress the magistrate, and then let lawyers sort out accusations afterwards. That could take months. In December, Getorius recalled, after I was charged with illegally dissecting a corpse, the evidence of my innocence was almost buried by the two deacons who were witnesses against me. Claudia is guiltless. Perhaps if I could board the Cybele and talk to Virilo, I might find out something that would prove Atlos killed himself. And an explanation for that fishing knife. I can’t do that if I’m held in a cell. Still, I don’t want to alarm Arcadia. Getorius stood and took her by the hand. “I don’t much care to be imprisoned again, Cara. After we look in on Faustina, I’ll take care of anyone who has come to the clinic. You pack up a few clothes and tell Childibert we’ll be away for a few days.”