by Albert Noyer
“Indeed, Abbot. What…ah…brings you to Lugdunum at the cusp of winter?”
“A churchman’s business.” Brenos bent low to slurp a spoonful of gritty barley.
“Yes,” Diviciac observed, “you Hibernians are beginning to proselytize on the Continent. Do you plan to start an abbey…a monastery, here at Lugdunum?”
“No, but from what I saw in your streets, you could use a monk’s discipline.”
Diviciac snickered. “What should I do at Rome?” he quoted. “I have not learned the art of falsehoods. A falling tile can brain you—not to mention the contents of all those chamber pots, which people throw out their windows—”
“Make sense, man,” Fiachra interrupted.
“Have you not read Juvenal’s satire on the evils of Rome? It could just as well apply to our city, and yet Christ, of course, came to save sinners. Isn’t that how you understand the Testaments, Secretary?”
“Perhaps.”
“Fiachra,” Brenos admonished, “remember what we call The Three False Sisters. ‘Perhaps,’ ‘Maybe,’ and ‘I dare say.’”
“One of your triads I hadn’t heard about,” Diviciac admitted, “even though I’ve read some of your literature in translation.”
“Indeed? Yet, unlike us you continue to humiliate sinners with public confessions,” Brenos taunted. “Still, I would agree in the case of that whorish daughter of Eve who tried to entice me into sin as I came here.”
“Christ admonished against throwing the first stone, Abbot.”
Brenos reddened; who was this presbyter to counsel him? “The Nazarene consigned fornicators to eternal fire! Females—Eve’s descendants—are agents of Satan.”
“Come now, Abbot,” Diviciac cajoled, “Irenaeus, a bishop martyred here at Lugdunum, maintained that the Virgin Mary’s obedience untied the knot of Eve’s disobedience. Mary completed the cycle from Sin to Salvation.”
Brenos snorted and fell silent. Fiachra’s spoon made scraping noises as he scooped barley grains from the sides of his bowl.
“More pottage?” Diviciac asked amiably.
Fiachra pushed his bowl forward, but Brenos shoved it back and stood up. “Enough. Presbyter, have your servant show us our rooms.”
Diviciac nodded to Servilius. At the door the abbot turned back. “This bishop Irenaeus. He was martyred along with Saint Blandina?”
“Blandina? You know about her?”
“A young virgin who died witnessing for the Nazarene. Is there a shrine to her?”
“Yes, next to the arena where she was martyred. It’s across the river in Condate, an old Gallic community.”
“I…I would like to visit the site.”
“It’s in a hostile neighborhood,” Diviciac warned. “The presbyter over there makes little headway in countering holdover pagan superstitions.”
“Nevertheless,” Brenos insisted, “I shall go.”
“I’ll send Deacon Epagnatos with you in the morning.”
November twenty-second dawned with a brilliant sun that rose into a clear sky the color of a winter lake. The air was colder than the day before, but promised to warm up by afternoon. Diviciac was not there when Brenos and Fiachra came into the triclinium, but Epagnatos had arranged for a breakfast of bread, hard local cheese, and olives.
“You wish to see the shrine of Blandina?” the deacon asked, after the two monks were seated and had begun eating.
Brenos nodded.
“Bishop Eusebius gives an inspiring account of her death—”
“I’ve read it,” Brenos answered curtly. “We Hibernians pride ourselves on our learning.”
“Yet, Abbot, the saying is that pride often wears the cloak of humility.”
Brenos glanced up sharply. Was this deacon mocking him? “We should go to the galley first. I’m to meet my guide there by the third hour.”
Epagnatos stood up. “Finish breakfast and I’ll take you to the wharf.”
The fronts of Lugdunum’s north-facing buildings were glazed with sleet. A handspan of snow coated their rooflines, giving a kind of homogenous white beauty to the decaying stone and stucco structures. Icicles dangled from roof eaves, dripping water as they grew ever-slimmer in the glare of a bright morning sun.
At the Via Bartolomei, the paved road could be seen curving up beyond the city wall toward two semi-circular buildings that were almost invisible in their concealing white mantle.
“The old Roman theaters,” Epagnatos explained. “There’s a temple complex of Cybele behind them. Diviciac tries to make people understand that the pagan goddess was a precursor to the Virgin Mary, yet sacrifices are still found on her altars.”
“Pagan sacrifices,” Brenos muttered. “Another manifestation of the evil wood in the Nazarene’s vineyard that we have come to prune away.”
“Prune away? What do you mean, Abbot?”
“There’s my guide over there, beyond the bridge,” Brenos said, instead of elaborating. This deacon and his presbyter—all of Lugdunum—would soon find out what was meant.
Warinar stood by the gangplank stamping his feet, surrounded by slaves sweeping snow off the wharf into the river.
“Abbot,” he called and hurried to meet Brenos. “I’ve found a bargemaster who’ll take us to Arelate. I already have the horses on board.”
“First I wish to visit the shrine of Holy Blandina.”
“Impossible. Lothar wants to leave immediately, before the weather turns poor again. And there will be a hunter’s moon bright enough so we can stay with the current at night.”
Brenos hesitated. Should he risk arriving at Ravenna late in order to pray to a woman who might or might not rid him of his uncontrollable sexual urges?
“Abbot, Lothar is waiting to push off,” Warinar insisted.
“Very well. Deacon, I won’t need you.”
Epagnatos bowed. “Then, Abbot, God be with you on a safe journey.”
Brenos gave him a cursory nod and asked Warinar, “Where is this barge?”
“Uh…moored across from the Eros.”
Lothar’s boat had a small cabin built into the stern to house his family when they went along on his trading journeys to towns along the Rhodanus River. The Arar merged with its larger, alpine-fed sister, beyond an island opposite Lugdunum’s lower city.
The boatman had decided to risk a voyage to Arelate with a load of wine casks, and realized that a traveling churchman had money. Also, his guide seemed desperate. Lothar shrewdly negotiated two gold solidi with Warinar—a fifth of a year’s earnings—for taking the group aboard, and estimated that the swollen river current would bring them to the southern city in about three days.
Warinar told the abbot he would decide what route to take from there, to reach Ravenna in time.
Brenos was pleased. On Warinar’s map Arelate was almost a third of the distance along, and there would be no snow on the southern route to further delay them. Perhaps the storm at Lugdunum had been God’s way of preventing an unforeseen accident on the mountain route. Even if they reached the capital a day or two after December sixth, there would still be enough time to contact Smyrna and plan for the revelation of the Nazarene’s will at the Nativity Mass.
Ravenna
Chapter eleven
Sigisvult’s death had brought the unsettling events of the last few days to a head, and so depressed Getorius that he refused to see patients. Instead, he closed himself off in his study, while Arcadia took care of the clinic. He was not too concerned; since the weather had turned milder, there were fewer patients who came in to be treated for fevers and phlegm imbalances, and he could spend time recovering from his own unbalanced humor.
The palace gave out no details concerning the deaths of Feletheus or Sigisvult. The two men had been on the imperial staff, therefore nothing need be said about them publicly. They were buried in a closed ceremony from the Chapel of the Archangel Michael, which was built in a wing of the imperial apartments.
The day after the funerals a woman came in
to the clinic complaining of a bloated leg. Arcadia, alarmed by her condition, did not feel competent enough to treat her. She went to her husband’s study to ask him to examine the swollen limb.
“Getorius, will you see a patient?”
“What’s his problem?” he asked without looking up from a book.
“It’s a woman. The wife of Charadric, actually, the guard whose hand you treated.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Her left leg is swollen and as red as cinnabar. Getorius, I know you’re upset, but I need your help with this. How long are you going to brood over Sigisvult’s death?”
“Call it brooding if you want, but I’m also thinking about what Theokritos said.”
“About his tests on the papyri?”
“No, woman!” he snapped, “that two of the witnesses are dead. Three, if you count Feletheus. That leaves you and me—”
“And Galla Placidia, Theokritos, Renatus. What are you getting at?”
“We went to the mausoleum on a…on the whim of Placidia. That manuscript was meant to be disclosed, but not then, and certainly not in that way. It was pure chance that we went on that particular night and Feletheus discovered a hidden niche in the mosaic design. Otherwise, the will papyrus would still be there, ready to be made public when Behan—or someone who hid it there—decided it should be revealed.” Getorius slammed his book shut. “That last will and testament of Christ is Behan’s prophecy, yet when and where was he going to announce it?”
“I don’t want to discuss that now, not with that poor woman in the clinic. Are you coming? Her name is Ingunda.”
Getorius sighed, flung the book aside, and stood up and followed Arcadia.
In the clinic he saw a somewhat overweight woman with a youngish face sitting on a chair, her swollen leg elevated on a stool. Good. Arcadia’s done the correct thing. He wanted to sound cordial, but had forgotten the patient’s name.
“Well, Domina…Domina—”
“Ingunda,” Arcadia reminded him.
“Yes. Ingunda, I saved your husband’s hand once, and now it seems that one of your legs is trying to have a life of its own. Let me see if I can’t make it behave.”
Getorius had seen the condition before in heavy women, but they had all been older than Ingunda. He had no idea what caused one leg to suddenly swell up with an imbalance of blood. Soranus of Ephesus wrote in his handbook for midwives that women’s tissues were spongier than men’s. This was so that they could absorb and store more blood from the process of digestion, and use that stored blood to nourish embryos. This was obvious since excess fluids were purged through the vagina during ‘Monthlies’ that corresponded with the moon’s phases, but the discharge temporarily ceased during pregnancy and lactation. He had also observed that people who had been immobile for a time sometimes exhibited the symptoms.
“This won’t hurt, Domina,” he said, gently pressing a finger into the swollen tissue. As he knew it might, the impression remained in the leg for a few moments afterward. “Have you stayed in bed for a time recently?”
“My phlegm was out of balance,” Ingunda complained. “Antioches told me to rest.”
“Antioches?” Getorius frowned. “If you’ve seen the palace physician, why come to me?”
“He forgets how to cure things. Antioches is old.”
“And you remembered that I was younger.”
“Getorius,” Arcadia muttered through clenched teeth, “you’ve taken an oath to help whomever comes to you.”
“So I have.” He tested the tissue again. “This calls for leeching, to drain off surplus blood and restore your balance.”
“Leeches?” Ingunda shuddered. “Those crawly little insects? I seen them in the marshes.”
“Leeches, hirudos, are not insects, not according to Aristotle. And they may be your only hope if you want help for your leg. I don’t keep them here, but the palace has a leeching room near the new hospital. My wife will take you there for a treatment.”
Taken by surprise, Arcadia stammered, “M…me, Getorius?”
“Part of your training, my dear,” he replied in an innocent tone, and with a trace of a smirk.
“Apply several to that leg for the period of about an hour. Perhaps Antioches could help you.”
Arcadia caught the emphasized sarcasm in his last remark. “Fine. I’ll order a litter chair for Ingunda. My patient will not be walking even that short distance.”
“Good. I’ll see if anyone else is waiting.”
Arcadia hailed a pair of litter bearers, who were loitering at the corner of the Via Julius Caesar and Via Honorius in hopes of attracting clients. Ingunda climbed slowly into the wicker chair. The carriers started for the palace, with Arcadia walking beside the woman.
“What…what will them slimy creatures do to me?” Ingunda asked in a frightened voice.
“It’s quite painless. They’ll relieve the excess blood in your leg,” Arcadia reassured her, while dreading the thought of dredging around in the vat where the leeches were kept.
“But the furcin’ little… Will I lose my leg?”
“Try not to think of that. No, Domina, you’ll be walking back home.” Arcadia immediately regretted the remark. To give a patient hope was one thing, but predicting the success of a procedure was another. She would have to control her empathy in a more professional manner. “How is your husband?” she asked, to counter her rashness and relax Ingunda.
“Charadric’s been promoted to a special palace unit of Frankish guards.”
“You must be proud of him.” As Arcadia neared the Lauretum Palace’s front entrance, she became aware of the two carriers snickering and making strained guttural noises, to mock their passenger’s weight. “Let them jest over the small copper they’ll get as payment,” she murmured.
At the palace entrance Gothic guards were on duty again. Both sentries recognized Ingunda and waved her in. After crossing the atrium and garden, Arcadia dismissed the two bearers, but relented and gave the men a larger follis coin than she had intended.
Antioches’ office and the clinic where he saw patients were on the second floor, opposite the library. The old physician had stopped training assistants, but beyond his clinic there was a large area recently opened up as a hospital.
Arcadia occasionally helped out in the wards and knew that the idea of a shelter where the poor could be treated was gaining acceptance in the Western Empire. Bishops in the East, like Proclus at Constantinople, had already convinced some wealthy women to fund hospitals in fulfillment of Christ’s declaration that if one helped the needy, they also ministered to Him. Aelia Flaccilla, the first wife of the late Emperor Theodosius, had founded a hospital years earlier. Pulcheria, the eastern emperor’s wealthy sister, was doing the same.
Bishop Chrysologos had broached the idea to Galla Placidia and urged her to emulate Flaccilla’s example. Chrysologos himself had recruited a number of women—‘Sisters’ he called them—who were willing to renounce the world and live as Brides of Christ and administer the nursing facility. Since Constantine the Great had repealed laws that formerly punished celibates, the unmarried state was now seen as a desirable ideal, and encouraged by bishops. One of the Sisters had told Arcadia that there were some four thousand virgin women in Antioch alone who were devoted to such work.
Antioches was not in his office and the clinic was empty of patients. A corridor led along the western wall, past the hospital and toward storerooms. The leeching room was at the far southwestern corner of the hall, to isolate the unpleasant area. It had been labeled hirvdorivm by one of the library scribes.
Arcadia paused in front of the door, feeling her skin pucker in revulsion, yet she forced herself to open it and peer inside, hoping that Antioches was there with a patient.
He was not. The room smelled of mildew and was semi-dark, with the only light coming from a cobwebbed, dirty glass pane covering a high window. While Arcadia waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, she fought to kee
p from gagging at the stench of mold and rotting wood. I have to set an example for Ingunda.
She made out two cots next to one wall, and a good-sized wooden vat set on a stand in the center of the room. Its top was at waist level. A hinged door was cut into the removable cover, and a small net hung down on the right side, but she had no idea how difficult it would be to scoop up the slimy creatures.
Arcadia took a deep breath and hoped that one day she would be worthy to swear by Apollo the Healer to keep the Oath that would make her a medica.
“Lie down on that cot, Ingunda,” she said gently. “We’ll do this slowly, starting with one leech.”
After taking the handle of the net off its peg, Arcadia opened the access hatch. The stink of a stagnant swamp rose from the dark water inside. She gingerly brushed off a few leeches that clung to the bottom of the door, and then muttered, “That wasn’t very clever. Now I’ll have to swish around in the water to net more of the creatures.”
Leaning forward and bracing herself mentally for the effort, Arcadia dipped the net into the brackish water. But, instead of sliding into the vat, the bronze ring holding the mesh struck something hard just beneath the surface.
“What the…?” she exclaimed, and bent to look inside for the obstruction. She made out a white form flecked with black oblong leeches, and thought some kind of marble pier had been built into the vat to make it easier to see them. When Arcadia gave the bulky form a harder jab, the shape moved. As it rolled over, a hand came into view. The pale length of arm below the wrist was dark with the creatures. When the body slowly turned past the opening from the inertia of her thrust, a bloated face bobbed to the surface.
Even with the black creatures clinging to the blood-drained white flesh, Arcadia recognized the pudgy features of Archdeacon Surrus Renatus.
She pulled back in horror. Feeling dizzy, Arcadia grasped at the vat’s slippery edge for support, but fainted, lost her grip, and crumpled to the tile floor.