by Albert Noyer
“It sounds like another one of the predictions so common these days. Yet some of the words are not in the correct form.”
“I noticed that too,” Getorius confirmed, “but wondered if Behan had been careless.”
“Hardly,” Renatus told him. “Discipline is a virtue with Hibernians. Librarian, give us an example of this aberration.”
Theokritos stroked his white beard, reflecting for a moment. “The last verse reads, ‘The testament of this is hidden in the book of John.’”
Renatus continued probing. “Testament of what?”
“The monk was referring to Christ’s discourse on love at his agape meal, and suggesting that its fulfillment would be in our time.”
“What are the improper forms you mentioned?”
“Scribes have begun to initialize—to increase the height of letters that begin a sentence or important title,” Theokritos told the archdeacon. “‘Testament’ should be so indicated. And rather than, ‘the book of John,’ the term should be ‘The Testament of John.’”
“The first way makes it sound like there’s a document hidden in a book that includes John’s Testament,” Arcadia ventured.
“Perhaps.” Theokritos pushed a chunk of fat to the side of his plate. “I admit I was intrigued enough to have Feletheus search through our Vulgate editions.”
The old fox. Pretending not to care. “And?” Getorius queried.
“He found nothing.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing hidden in my copy of Jerome,” Renatus said, “but I’ll check the Bishopric library.”
Placidia had been distracted by her son’s attraction to Arcadia. “Again, what are we looking for, Librarian?”
“A forgery at best, Regina. In times of crisis, prophecies give hope to fools.”
“But…but this could initiate a new heresy,” Renatus sputtered, jabbing the air with his knife. “The bishop would want it exposed quickly, rather than having some wild-eyed hermit shouting nonsense from the public rostrum.”
Placidia allowed the conversation to subside while servants refilled the platters. Getorius guessed that everyone felt as stiff as he did from lying down. Except for Aetius and the women, they were shifting position and holding their bodies up with one arm or another. Theokritos, especially, was having trouble finding a comfortable position.
Arcadia allowed herself to be served only small portions of food and refused more wine. It was an excellent vintage, possibly still from the vineyards of Latium in the hills around Rome, she thought, but the honey sweetening masked its rich body.
She had been watching Eudoxia, aware that the eighteen-year-old Augusta had been raised in the court at Constantinople. She had obviously been spoiled by her father, Theodosius ii, the Eastern Augustus, yet had also been taught court protocol, in preparation for her role as the potential wife of an emperor. Arcadia could see that the woman was bored by the scholarly talk and annoyed at her husband’s interest in a guest who was not even a member of a Patrician family.
Eudoxia glanced up at Arcadia, who signaled back with eye contact and a smile that she had no interest in being Valentinian’s new mistress.
The servants had begun to remove the platters of uneaten food, when Eudoxia called over, “Mother Placidia. Perhaps I could show our…your…guests the holy relics my mother brought back from Palestina.”
Placidia was evidently taken by surprise. She had been watching Heraclius, who had slipped into the room to stand by Valentinian’s couch. Tavern gossip suggested that the eunuch steward had too much influence on the emperor, not only in feeding his fascination with astrology, but also arranging the sexual liaisons that were the unspoken scandal of the palace. Now her daughter-in-law had suddenly interfered with a surprise she had planned. Was Heraclius behind this, too, his entrance being a signal for Eudoxia?
Placidia disliked her daughter-in-law’s mother. Athenaïs, the daughter of a Greek Sophist, had been well educated in the Hellenistic culture of Athens. While on a journey to Constantinople, Athenaïs had caught the eye of Theodosius’ sister Pulcheria, who thought her suitable for marriage to an emperor. The marriage took place after she was baptized with the Greek Christian name, Eudocia. Within two years, the pagan philosopher’s daughter had been raised to the imperial rank of Eastern Augusta.
Placidia knew about the relics. Eudocia had recently returned from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, where the Bishop of Jerusalem had given her several mementos of the Apostles. The most spectacular of these was the chain with which Herod Antipas had shackled Peter, and from which he had been miraculously freed by an angel. Eudocia had shared the relics with her like-named daughter, intending to dedicate a basilica at Rome with the chains as a votive offering for her safe return.
“Relics?” After stalling by rearranging her crown, Placidia forced a smile. “All in good time, my dear. I want my architect to tell us about the progress he’s made on my mausoleum. I’m dedicating it to Blessed Lawrence.”
Sigisvult looked up, startled. “Of…of course, Regina. As you wish.”
“Begin with the symbolism.”
“The building will be an allegory of the cosmos,” he explained. “Its exterior is unfaced brick, to represent our visible world. Inside, the space shines like Paradise itself, with mosaics that rival any in Constantinople. Gold and lapis tiles…vermilions that have never been seen on this side of the Adriatic—”
“Now for my surprise,” Placidia called out. “We shall look at the building this evening. Now, before the sweet course.”
“But Regina, it…it’s dark outside,” Sigisvult objected. “The work isn’t totally complete.”
“Architect, didn’t you tell me niches for two of the sarcophagi are finished?” Placidia demanded in the tone of a woman not used to being contradicted. “And the mosaics of Christ as shepherd…the martyrdom of Lawrence? No, we shall go to my mausoleum.”
“Augustus,” Heraclius stage-whispered to Valentinian in his womanish voice, “Marcian warned against outdoor night adventures in November.”
“Visiting tombs for sure.” Valentinian tittered drunkenly, then called over, “Arcadia, you don’t want to see some gloomy vault. I’ll show you the imperial apartments instead.”
“She’s going with her husband,” Placidia intervened. “You needn’t come, Placidus.”
“And I’m staying here, too,” Eudoxia whined, now deprived of her opportunity to be the center of attention with her relics.
“And I, Regina, with your permission,” Aetius said, sitting up on the couch.
“Yes…Pelagia, your Gothic woman, will want her bed warmed,” Placidia sneered. “You command legions, Aetius, but how lacking in any sense of adventure you are. Leave Us.”
Theokritos crawled stiffly off the couch. “I would like Feletheus to accompany me, Regina. He wants to put a mosaic in the library reading area.”
“Very well. Magnaric, send a servant to fetch him. Have four others light torches.”
Getorius rubbed his stiff legs and half-limped over to Arcadia. “Thank Aesclapius we have a chance to stretch,” he muttered, “but I hope those street lakes have drained off.”
She laughed. “Husband, wet feet are a small price to pay for the privilege of seeing the imperial mausoleum. Besides, you have no choice. The Gothic Queen commanded it.”
Getorius bent close to her ear. “Did you notice Renatus probing to find out about the prophecy? It’s almost as if he’s learned more since yesterday and wants to confirm it.”
“Or so the wine you drank made it appear.” Arcadia took his arm. “Let’s go, husband. The Gothic Queen is beckoning us.”
Chapter eight
The new moon had risen during the first night watch; now its slim crescent was visible through a scattering of clouds and accompanied by a retinue of dim stars. Although the rain had stopped several hours earlier, few citizens were in the streets. Corner bonfires threw sparks and smoke into the chilly air, and washed an orange light over civic guards who hud
dled around the blazes to warm themselves.
Galla Placidia had chosen the northwest quadrant of Ravenna, the Adriana, for her Basilica of the Holy Cross and new mausoleum.
The buildings were on high ground that had been enclosed by her son’s rebuilt walls. Here, older buildings were being razed to make room for the villas of senators and court officials who had followed Emperor Honorius to Ravenna almost four decades ago, after he made the port city his Western capital.
Merchants newly rich from government contracts and goods imported through Constantinople were also commissioning elegant homes in the quarter.
By now the rainwater had run down toward the Oppidum area, so the cobbled streets leading to the mausoleum were fairly well drained. A smell of burning pitch was strong on the damp air as the torchbearers moved ahead of the small procession. Placidia had removed her crown, and covered her hair with the hood of a white woolen cloak.
Renatus, following a pace behind her, expressed concern. “Empress, you should be carried in a litter. This mud will ruin your slippers and the hem of your magnificent tunic.”
“Archdeacon,” she quipped, “I’ve survived both the barbarian occupation of Rome and a Visigoth husband, so I can surely walk the short distance to my tomb. I’ll be carried there soon enough.”
“You don’t wish to be buried at Constantinople near your father?” Renatus asked, “or the Theodosian family tombs at Rome?”
“In these dangerous times, even dead I might not complete such a journey.”
“Empress—”
“No, Archdeacon. This way I can rest in the sight of Blessed Lawrence, and as a part of my Basilica of the Holy Cross.”
Sigisvult walked next to Renatus, ahead of his unwanted visitors, but said nothing.
Getorius and Arcadia, in the middle, could hear Theokritos behind them, complaining to Feletheus that the bottom of his toga was being soaked by puddles which the assistant had failed to point out.
A short distance along the Via Honorius the group passed under the Porta Asiana, all that remained of a gate in the old Augustan wall of the town’s northern limit. The wooden bridge over the Little Padenna River remained, but the stream bed had been paved over and was now used as a sewer. A new avenue named after Placidia’s second husband, Constantius III, also now deceased, had been laid parallel to the wall foundations. Half way along this street, the mausoleum was reached by a smaller intersecting way, already called Vicus Galla Placidia.
Sigisvult had moved ahead of Placidia, when the dark bulk of the basilica and its attached mausoleum loomed in the near distance. Several men whom he had hired to guard building materials were huddled around a bonfire. One of them looked up, then stepped forward to challenge the intruders, his spear held level.
“Pax, peace,” Sigisvult said quickly. “Guard, I’m the architect. My friends want a look at the mausoleum.”
The man grunted and lowered his weapon, but evidently recognized Placidia and managed an awkward salute. “Ave. Hail, Empr’ss.”
Sigisvult pressed a silver half-siliqua into his hand as he whispered, “Don’t let your companions know the Empress Mother is here. We won’t be long.”
“And tell him to stopper that wineskin,” Getorius muttered, watching the exchange. “He already smells like a harbor tavern at dawn.”
“There’s the mausoleum!” Arcadia exclaimed, “Sigisvult, I can’t wait to see the mosaics you described.”
The small cruciform building was at the south end of the narthex, a covered porch leading into the Holy Cross Basilica. Even by the sparse torchlight the austerity Sigisvult had described was evident. Blind arcades were the only relief in the raw brick walls, but the recesses gave a unifying motive to the twelve intersecting surfaces. Above, a squat tower concealed the domed ceiling of the interior.
At the unlocked door inside the narthex, Sigisvult hurried Galla Placidia into her building. Getorius knew he had bribed the guard, yet it would only be a matter of time until the man boasted of having protected the emperor’s mother from imaginary assassins, and other guards came to gawk at her.
The interior, which Getorius estimated to be about five paces wide and three times that long, smelled of damp mortar and fresh wood shavings, yet instead of the dank space he had expected, the building was warm from the heat of braziers left glowing to dry the mosaic grout. A slave was lying asleep on the floor, next to one of the iron grates. Sigisvult nudged the man awake with a foot and ordered him out. After the palace slaves had propped their torches in the scaffolding, he told them to wait outside.
As the group’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, the glow of the colored mosaic decorations materialized from the gloom. Getorius grasped Arcadia’s hand, gazing at the splendor of the entranceway mosaic, which depicted Christ as a benevolent shepherd.
“Exquisite,” Placidia murmured in a voice hardly louder than her breathing. “Most exquisite, Sigisvult.”
The depiction of Jesus as a beardless youth had more in common with the pagan god Apollo, than with ragged sheep herders in Judea. Christ wore a golden tunic decorated with two aquamarine stripes on the front, and the purple pallium of an Augustus lay across his lap. The Imperial Shepherd held a golden cross as a crook in his left hand, while he reached over to fondle the muzzle of the nearest sheep with the other. Five other animals watched.
“I am the caring shepherd,” Renatus quoted, “and I know my sheep and my sheep know me.”
Even the usually opinionated Theokritos was uncritical at viewing the blue and green colors, which sparkled with gold tiles that had been worked into Christ’s robe and halo.
“Sigisvult”—Placidia broke the spell again—“you’ve more than repaid my faith in you through this work. Come to think of it, there are two of you here who owe their lives to me. Surgeon, we’ll speak of my plans for you later. Now, Sigisvult, I want to see the niche where I’ll be buried. You said the mosaic of Saint Lawrence was finished?”
“Yes, Empress. We need to remove the scaffold, but the work is complete. Here…in the transept opposite the entrance.” The group followed Sigisvult past two arched recesses. “These are where the sarcophagi of Honorius and Constantius will be placed,” he explained.
“My brother and my husband,” Placidia commented softly. “Near me for eternity.”
In a semi-circular space above her niche, the figure of Lawrence hovered in spiritual ecstasy, next to the fiery grill on which he had been martyred. A flicker of torchlight played on the alabaster pane of a center window.
“I don’t know anything about Lawrence,” Arcadia admitted. “Why did you include him, Sigisvult?”
“It was the Archdeacon’s idea,” Placidia answered. “What did you tell me, Renatus?”
“Lawrence became a deacon during the reign of Valerian. The emperor generally let Christians practice the Faith, but then everything seemed to go wrong for Rome. Persians, Germani, Goths…all attacked our frontiers at once.”
“Not unlike today,” Placidia remarked wryly. “Continue.”
“The Augustus wanted to divert attention and blame someone. One of his advisers, a member of an Egyptian cult, brought his magicians. They persuaded the old emperor that his toleration of Christians had offended the Roman gods—”
“Which was strange,” Theokritos interrupted, “since Denys of Alexandria wrote that the palace was almost like a church because so many Christians worked there.”
“Again, why was Lawrence singled out?” Placidia asked.
“Sixtus the Second, namesake of our present pontiff, was in Peter’s Chair. Valerian’s treasury officials cast greedy eyes on the Church’s money, goods that were intended for the poor. It was Lawrence’s responsibility to distribute them, as now it is mine. The assassins ambushed Sixtus in a catacomb, murdered him and some of his presbyters.”
Renatus pointed up to the iron grill. “Lawrence was tortured on that device to make him reveal the location of the treasure.”
Dressed in a white toga, Lawrence he
ld a golden cross and an open book in his hands. A pale blue celestial background was in peaceful contrast to the angry red flames beneath the grill.
“Lawrence is rising in glory,” Sigisvult said, explaining the symbolism. “It took some doing to get the folds of the toga to express his spiritual state. The cross is an emblem of his martyrdom.”
“The tradition holds,” Renatus continued, “that when Lawrence was ordered to reveal the Church’s treasure, he brought in sick and poor people. That cabinet alongside the saint displays the Testaments of Mark, Luke, Matthew and John. Lawrence said those writings were his other treasures, a record of the Savior’s life.”
Feletheus edged up to Theokritos. “Master,” he whispered, “I’ve been studying the mosaic. There is a book of John shown in the cabinet.”
“A Book of John?” Theokritos gave a half-laugh. “Ridiculous. It’s an ikon, a picture. What could it conceal?”
“Just the same, if I might look more closely?”
“What are you two conspiring about?” Placidia demanded, frowning. “Don’t you like the artwork, Librarian?”
“Indeed, it is exquisite, Regina,” Theokritos replied, “as you said yourself. My assistant wishes to examine the tile work of the Testaments more closely.”
“Would that be all right, Sigisvult?”
“Have him get on the scaffolding. It’s not high, but the man must still be careful.”
Feletheus climbed the framework with surprising agility. Once he was facing the tile book design, he ran his fingers along its edges, and then called down, “Master, I feel a space around the sides. As if the book could be removed.”
“Pulled out?” Getorius asked.
“Yes.”
“Impossible,” Sigisvult scoffed. “The tesserae are less than a finger’s thickness in depth.”
“Will the book come out?” Theokritos asked, watching his assistant.
Feletheus tugged at the edges. “It…yes…it’s moving.”
The John mosaic was at the lower right, about on eye level with Feletheus. As he pulled harder the book shape began to move forward and allow him a better grip. “It’s…slid…ing out,” he grunted. “There’s a space…behin…”