by Albert Noyer
“Shield it, husband.”
“Relax, cara. These Huns probably know about enough Latin to order wine in a tavern.”
“Getorius!”
His goading dissolved into a grin as he tripped over the folds of his toga stepping down from the carriage.
Inside, the hallway was lined with eight more Hunnic sentries. Each man was a duplicate of the next, except for the belted tunic he wore. The silk material had different patterns, with gold coins sewed on as decorations. The guards wore sable hats, dyed calfskin boots, and stood as rigidly as statues, holding their curved swords down, with the tips resting on the floor.
Getorius was impressed. If we had enough men in our legions with half the Huns’ discipline, there might be more hope for the empire, despite inept rulers like Valentinian.
Galla Placidia had chosen a reception room on the left of the hallway as the intimate location for her dinner. Warm light from the open door reflected off the floor tiles, and a scent of incense was drifting into the hallway from the room. Voices of guests who had already arrived resonated in soft inflections.
When Getorius escorted Arcadia into the room, Placidia was standing a short distance from the door, speaking to Sigisvult. Valentinian and his wife Eudoxia were reclining on one of the couches, nibbling at a variety of first-course delicacies. Theokritos bent his head close to that of Archdeacon Renatus, speaking in a hushed tone.
Aetius did not seem to have arrived yet.
Arcadia gasped audibly when she saw Placidia, stunned by the magnificence of the tunic she wore—a direct contrast to the request that her guests dress simply. “It doesn’t seem possible that earthly hands could have created that material,” she whispered to her husband. “It shimmers as if it comes from some celestial realm.”
The purple silk body of Placidia’s tunic was decorated by twin stripes of gold cloth, embroidered with a motif of roses down each band. Gold thread letters sewn onto a blue background on her left sleeve spelled the initials G P R G, for Galla Placidia Regina Gothorum, which proclaimed her rank as Queen of the Goths. Amazed as Arcadia was at the rich material, she was even more astonished at the ornamentation on Placidia’s head. Her hair’s crowning glory—literally—was a gold-filigree corona that rested lightly on it. Gold letters hung around the lower edge to spell out the queen’s name, G A L L A P L A C I D I A. Above these, the openwork was set with three rows of alternating pearl and sapphire gems.
Placidia looked around, as if aware that Arcadia was staring at her. She excused herself to Sigisvult and came forward, fingering a gold medallion struck with her profile and the words salvs reipvblicae. As did her son’s coins, the inscription equated her with the health of the republic.
“Surgeon,” she said, smiling at Getorius. “I’m pleased that you came to Our dinner.”
“Th…this is my wife Arcadia,” he stammered, bowing because Placidia had used the formal pronoun in referring to herself.
“Welcome. My dear, We noticed you admiring Our crown. It was a wedding gift from Ataulf. We were Queen of the Goths at twenty-six.” Placidia gave a throaty chuckle, then turned back to Getorius. “You knew Our physician, Nicias.”
“Yes. He brought me here…Empress.”
“Of course, Surgeon. Tell me the story again.” In her request, Placidia dropped the pronoun.
While Placidia reminisced with Getorius about the old physician, Arcadia studied the woman. She guessed her to be about fifty years old. Graying hair lightly tinted with a henna rinse set off the gold in the coronet. It was common knowledge that, as a child, Placidia had been raised in the imperial palaces of Constantinople and Rome, although her father, Theodosius, had come from Hispania. He was an army commander when Gratian appointed him Augustus of the East, after the disastrous Roman defeat at Adrianople. Theodosius had been elected emperor and had redirected Roman military policy by allowing Goths to be unconditionally recruited into the army.
Galla Placidia was as convinced as her father that Romans and barbarian tribes on the frontiers of the empire must join together for mutual security. Ataulf, her Visigoth husband, had shared her vision, but his untimely assassination had raised others to leadership who were not as fascinated by the Roman way of life.
Arcadia was suddenly roused from her musing by Placidia’s voice. “We’ll begin dinner without Flavius Aetius. Your names are on a papyrus which states which couch you’ll share. Surgeon, come with your wife and meet the Augustus and Augusta.”
Valentinian grunted an acknowledgement, eyeing Arcadia as he slowly licked his fingers. Eudoxia managed one of the wan smiles she reserved for social inferiors.
Getorius was not pleased to find himself sharing a couch with Sigisvult and the absent Aetius, while Arcadia was placed between Placidia and Theokritos. The emperor, his wife, and Renatus were to their right. Still, at least Arcadia hadn’t been placed next to the Augustus.
After the guests had variously slid, rolled, or tumbled onto the unfamiliar slanted beds, servants wearing short tunics and the floppy Phrygian caps of freemen brought in pitchers of sweetened wine. Others carried dishes of what Placidia imagined had been served at republican banquets. A slave announced the nature of each dish, all of which took advantage of Ravenna’s location on the sea. Rissoles of minced squid and lobster seasoned with pepper and oregano were served with a sweet-sour prune sauce. Arcadia thought the subtle hint of cumin exactly right. The spice could easily dominate any dish, and usually did in tavern food, to cover the taste of spoiled meat. She took a portion of sausages made with pork and eggs, flavored with lovage and grilled in sea salt. A servant spooned over a mustard, oil, and vinegar sauce.
Getorius tried to catch his wife’s eye when a mould in the shape of a sea turtle was uncovered, but she was turned away, talking to Theokritos. The silver mould was filled with bread soaked in wine, then layered with soft cheese, cucumbers, pine nuts, capers, and then baked. He found it excellent, even if the mint in the accompanying herb sauce was a bit strong.
During the meal, it became apparent why the librarian had been included among the guests when Placidia asked him to tell stories about the heroes of early Rome. She wanted the company to be reminded of the ordinary men and women who had sacrificed themselves for the health of the Roman state.
Theokritos quoted first from Polybius, a Greek historian who had emphasized that the sacred destiny of Rome was to become ruler of the world—a thin attempt to justify the conquest of Greece by the legions of Lucius Mummius.
“Enough of Hellas, move on Librarian,” Placidia ordered. “Tell us of thwarted conspiracies.”
Getorius knew the woman was aware of Theokritos’ Athenian origin. Had he deliberately chosen to goad the Empress Mother?
“The consul Brutus, perhaps?” he asked.
Placidia waved a hand in agreement.
Valentinian quickly lost interest in the story, as did his wife. The emperor was on the point of dozing when Aetius arrived in a clatter of makeshift armor that was evidently intended to show him dressed as a legate in the legions of Julius Caesar, if not as the great commander himself. Aetius wore the legendary red cloak of Caesar over a tooled cuirass. His stocky legs, bare, and ruddy from the cold, showed beneath a kilt of leather straps that were studded with bronze nails.
Getorius suppressed a smile behind his napkin, and saw Arcadia look down in embarrassment.
Aetius removed his own helmet—he had not bothered to have a historical one found or made—and acknowledged Galla Placidia, then saluted Valentinian. The Augustus waved a sausage at him in return.
“We were speaking of the men of the Republic,” Placidia said, as Aetius tried to maneuver into place next to Getorius without revealing what was under the kilt straps. “My library master, Theokritos, was going to tell us about Brutus.”
The name had its desired effect. Aetius looked toward Placidia with a quizzical frown.
“Ah, not the Brutus who also wounded Caesar’s pride when he stabbed him,” she added innocently. �
��No. The Lucius Brutus who ordered the execution of his own sons, after they were accused of treason. Commander, you have sons by your Gothic wife, do you not?”
“Two, Empress. Carpilio and Gaudentius.”
Placida fixed Aetius with a cold stare over the rim of her wine cup. “And would you order their deaths for Rome, as did our Brutus?”
“Empress, I once gave Carpilio to the Huns as a hostage for Rome,” he replied, maintaining his composure. “The ‘treason’ of Brutus’ sons was to want to restore a king who, actually, was to be subject to the Senate.”
Getorius doubted that Valentinian had caught the irony in the comment. Caesar’s successors, now emperors, had stripped senators of their republican powers.
Placidia, across from him, caught it. “Well said, Commander. Let us drink to the Senate and People of Rome.”
After the toast, as a servant refilled Aetius’s cup, Getorius introduced himself.
“Yes. I know of you, Surgeon,” Aetius responded. “You’ve treated some of my men.”
“Commander,” Renatus called over, “your Hunnic guard. Are they Arian heretics?”
Aetius helped himself to a rissole before glancing up at him. “Archdeacon, as long as they’re loyal, I don’t interfere with my men’s religion.”
“But Arians are not loyal to the Roman Church,” Renatus probed. “This woman…Thecla…is their presbytera, yet Christ ordained none of Eve’s Daughters.”
Getorius knew that early on women had officiated at the Eucharist, but steered the conversation back to the guards. “Archdeacon, when Honorius was emperor, his army commander Flavius Stilicho had similarly loyal Hunnic contingents.”
“A novelty thirty years ago,” Renatus countered. “Now they’re thick as…as pond scum.”
“An unpleasant metaphor, Archdeacon,” Aetius commented.
“Where are our field armies?” Valentinian asked the commander, more interested now that conversation had turned to the military.
“Augustus, they are stationed between here and Mediolanum.”
“Who’s in charge, someone named Hunwulf?” Valentinian laughed at his joke about names of barbarian legion commanders.
Getorius noticed Aetius flush, recalling that the commander’s wife had been excluded because of her Gothic origin. “With respect, Augustus,” he ventured, “barbarians who were granted federate status have never reneged on their obligations to Rome.”
“As long as the bribes keep coming,” Renatus taunted. “How disturbing to have only a barbarian’s oath between us and another ravaging of Rome, as happened a generation ago.”
“Where I was one of the prizes,” Placidia reminded him. “I convinced Ataulf that the benefits of Romanitas were in his barbarians’ interests.”
“Roman-ness?” Theokritos scoffed. “That’s not for Gaiseric. He and his Vandals at Carthage have come full circle, so to speak.”
“Full circle?” Valentinian echoed, looking puzzled.
“Your Excellency is aware that Carthage, capital of our African province, fell to the Vandals last month?”
“Librarian, don’t be impertinent,” Placidia warned. “Of course the Augustus knows.”
“Now Gaiseric poses a threat to Lucania in southern Italy,” Aetius added.
Valentinian cut a piece off a sausage and held it up on the point of his knife. “Then order the legions that are down there to bring me this Vandal’s head…like this.”
“Augustus, we have no legions there.”
“Well where in Hades’ name are they, Aetius? You’re the furcing commander.”
“Northern Gaul. The Danube frontier—”
“The navy!” Valentinian suddenly shouted, as if Neptune himself had inspired his thought. “Use our fleet. What do barbarians know about galleys?”
“Good point, Augustus,” Aetius responded, to end a pointless conversation. All of Ravenna feared that Gaiseric had probably captured the African fleet and would soon learn how to use it.
“Goths may be loyal to Rome,” Renatus commented, breaking a silence that followed, “but not to the Roman Church. They’re heretics, plain and simple.”
“We have no trouble with them in Ravenna,” Sigisvult objected.
“Yes, Architect,” Renatus scoffed, “they’re good for your profession. Duplicate basilicas, two baptistries—”
“They keep to their quadrant near the harbor,” Sigisvult broke in angrily.
“Then there are the Judeans,” Renatus continued. “An entire colony of Hebrews here and at Classis. And cryptopagans…even a temple to Isis, an Egyptian idol. God only knows what other hidden cults there are.” The archdeacon looked toward Theokritos for support. “What do you think, Librarian?”
“As well as faith, the Goths corrupt language,” Theokritos grumbled. “Who still speaks of pay as salarium? Now it’s Gothic midzo.”
“Sir, don’t you think we share a common language?” Arcadia asked, feeling competent to discuss linguistics, if not legions. “Some words are so similar. Latin rex, and Gothic reiks for ‘king.’”
“A coincidence, young woman.”
Arcadia fortified herself with a quick gulp of wine. “You don’t think there’s a common root, sir?”
“Certainly not with Greek, young woman,” Theokritos replied. “And Latin has its own corrupt origins.”
“But take the present month of November,” Arcadia persisted, feeling a bit giddy. “Goths call it Naubaimar. Surely the similarity is more than a coincidence.”
“They stole it from us, like the land we’re obliged to give them under the new laws. Soon two-thirds of our words will also be Germanic…like those Frankish terms creeping in.”
“Come now, Librarian,” Sigisvult countered, “Franks are a tribe destined to disappear, just as did the Germanic ones that Tacitus mentioned. Isn’t that so Commander?”
Aetius shrugged and swirled the wine in his cup. “I’m not so sure.”
“Nor I,” Placidia agreed.
Eudoxia used the following interval of silence to complain that the room was chilly.
“I’ll tell Heraclius,” Valentinian said looking around, “Where is that eunuch of mine?”
“Magnaric”—Placidia signaled to her steward—“Magnaric, speak to the furnace attendants, and have the second course brought in.”
Servants appeared with platters of cheeses, salt fish, and lentils cooked with mussels. These were followed by wild duck braised in a turnip sauce, roast venison with aromatic date-spikenard gravy, and the carcass of a boar basted with caraway.
Watching Magnaric carve the wild pig evidently reminded Valentinian of the one he had wounded in The Pines. “The boar I probably killed on the day that monk drowned was bigger than this one,” he boasted.
Eudoxia giggled. Placidia let the insensitive remark pass, only commenting, “A pity about the Hibernian, but at least he died in Christ.”
“These Hibernians”—Renatus paused to accept a serving of duck—“these hyperborean islanders are gaining a foothold in Gaul.”
“Whereas,” Aetius quipped, “no Roman legion secured even a toehold on their island.”
“The bishop sent word to the dead monk’s abbot,” Renatus said, missing the connection.
“Who is he, Archdeacon?” Placidia asked.
“Brenos, at Autessiodurum. There’s a monastery there that Germanus built, but Roman bishops hope it won’t attract too many Gallic men.”
“Why is that?”
“Empress Mother,” Renatus explained, “Hibernians differ in some of their practices…private confession, rather than public, for example, a different date to commemorate the Lord’s resurrection. They also favor married clergy, when Rome is rightly trying to suppress this practice.”
Placidia changed back to Behan’s death. “Surgeon, you examined the monk’s body?”
“Yes. Behan was evidently practicing a rather severe form of penance.”
“I found him in the stream,” Valentinian boasted through a
mouthful of venison.
“Optila calls monks Shave-heads.”
Getorius ignored the crude remark. “Empress, the cold water proved too much for Behan. He drowned.”
“There was a welt around his neck,” Arcadia blurted out from her couch.
What? Getorius stopped cutting a chunk of boar. Is Arcadia going to tell everyone she thinks Behan was murdered? She does get a little reckless after drinking.
“Of course, there was,” Renatus agreed in a smug tone. “Didn’t you find a leather strap somewhere in his hut?”
“Why…y…yes,” she stammered. “H…how did you know?”
Getorius paled. Yes, how could he have known?
“It’s another penance these Hibernians practice,” Renatus explained. “They wrap a strap around their necks and tighten it until they lose consciousness. I’m told it induces some kind of vision or ecstasy.”
“Archdeacon,” Getorius asked, to save his wife from further embarrassment, “when is this Brenos to arrive?”
“I doubt the abbot will come himself. He’ll send someone with burial authorization. Would he be able to take the body back to Gaul? I mean, its condition—”
“I think it’s been cold enough to preserve it.”
“Archdeacon,” Sigisvult suggested, “perhaps one of the Egyptian priests you mentioned could embalm the body.”
“That’s a thought—”
“Enough talk of Behan’s death,” Placidia interposed, turning to Theokritos. “I understand there were documents brought to you from the holy man’s cell. What were they?”
“Riddles in the triad style of Hibernians. A fantasized prophecy, I would say.”
Valentinian, who had been staring at Arcadia since the meat courses were brought in, took up the unintended cue with a wink at her. “My astrologer predicted that Eros would favor me in November. So far he’s been wrong, but it’s only mid-month.”
“The man’s a fool,” Placidia told her son, glaring at him. “Go on, Librarian. Tell us of this prophecy.”