Unholy Sepulcher, page 11
part #4 of Getorius and Arcadia Mystery Series
Just past the third mile marker, a horseman—the first seen on the road—passed the wagon, urging his mount to a gallop. The rider's loose robe flapped after him; his nose and mouth were covered by a shawl that wrapped around his head as protection against dust. Getorius mused that he might be a hired messenger, then forgot the incident.
Some twelve miles along the way, the drivers stopped at an imperial relay station, to change mules and eat a light mid-morning meal. Getorius gently leaned his sleeping wife against the wagon's side and stepped out to relieve a cramp in his leg. He had not wanted to shift position and disturb Arcadia's rest.
The station was understaffed: few pilgrims would come to the Holy Land until December for the Feast of the Nativity at Bethlehem. Pulcheria's authorization and the menacing persuasion of Saturnilos sent the station master's slaves scurrying to harness fresh mules. Shapur brought out the food basket and opened it. Saturnilos ate apart. Moshe ben Asher and Mordecai stood near the station's wall sharing a wineskin, bread, and dates. Getorius joined them to ask the old man how he fared,
Ben Asher squinted in the direction of the voice. "Surgeon? How am I? Excited to be a day from entering Yerushalayim, Blessed be the Holy One."
Mordecai pointed to the north. "Nazarite, do you see that mound over there."
"Yes. What is it?"
"The ruins of Gath, a Philistine city that Joshua said was given to the Israelites by the Holy One. There was born Goliath, whom David vanquished and as recorded in First Chronicles, 'David proceeded to strike the Philistines and subdue them and take Gath.' Is not Rome the new Goliath? The Tannaim say, 'Seek no intimacy with ruling powers'."
Ben Asher cautioned, "Mordecai, such talk is worriysome. Rather, 'Let thy house be a meeting place for scholars'." He turned to ask Getorius. "Your wife is better?"
"Sleeping. I hope she can accept a realization that she probably won't see Aphrodisia again."
"If it is your wish, Surgeon, may it be so."
Getorius noticed Saturnilos signaling to him. "It's time to continue on." He brought fresh dates to Arcadia, but she mumbled that she would rather sleep. He saved the fruit and ate bread and dried meat between sips of sweet wine from the wineskin.
* * *
Cool morning air warmed perceptibly as the coaches lurched through a less settled and cultivated countryside. Villa estates became infrequent. Dense forests of fir trees replaced farmlands. As a gradual rise in the road made the mules strain at their harness, fields of withered, ochre grasses barely covered outcroppings of white limestone.
Getorius slipped an arm around Arcadia, wondering if this was the bandit country Polimios had warned about. He had started to doze when he felt the coach turn northeast. He glanced out the window; clouds had built up in the west. It might rain before evening, but perhaps I still can take Arcadia out to look for clothing. The shops I saw at Ascalon were open booths with non-Christian merchants sitting outside. We know nothing about prices here, so Polimios's suggestion about hiring an Arab guide is wise.
* * *
Afternoon shadows of trees and fruit stands at the side of the road had lengthened considerably when the walls of a town appeared in the distance. Surmising that this was Eleutheropolis, Getorius craned his neck outside the coach window to see. A few of the town's larger buildings were visible above stone parapets; some had the same tile roofs as villas in Italia. A basilica, topped by a cross, and the curve of an amphitheater, stood above the warren of flat-roofed stone or mud-block dwellings.
He gently shook Arcadia. "Cara, you'll have to awaken. We've arrived at the place where we'll spend the night. It looks like quite a large town."
Arcadia stirred and murmured, "Town? Where are we?"
"It should be Eleutheropolis."
She lay back against the seat cushion without looking outside.
As the coach approached the entrance arch of a double gateway flanked by three-story high turrets, Getorius made out the words IMP CAES LUCIO SEPTIMIO SEVERO. The inscription boasted that an emperor had donated the archway to the city.
"Septimus Severus," he read aloud. "My tutor had me learn about the emperor's Parthian wars, but I had no idea he had left monuments in Judea."
At his voice, Arcadia opened her eyes to glance out the window. "What were you saying?"
"That ancient gateway ahead is a link with Rome, well over a thousand miles away." He had helped Arcadia sit up more comfortably when a commotion was heard outside the coach. A swarthy young man with wild black hair and heavy eyebrows had taken hold of the mule's harnesses in an attempt to halt the animals.
Shapur shouted angry words in Syriac at him, but the youth stopped the beasts and now flashed a smile at the driver and Saturnilos.
"Pax. Irini. Asalaam alaykom. Peace, I am guide for you," he said in badly broken Latin. "Polimios send to me for you."
Getorius remembered the horse-rider that had passed them so swiftly. "Did a messenger from Polimios come to tell you about our arrival?"
"Ita vero…yes." He came to the window to shake Getorius's hand. "Yes. You clever man."
Saturnilos glowered down at the would-be guide. "Why did you stop us?"
The youth turned back to him. "Ah, sir, Polimios say town not safe. You stay at my village. Short mile away."
Furious, his face and scar livid, Saturnilos snarled, "Ridiculous. You'll take me to the imperial mansio in Eleutheropolis. I travel under the sponsorship of Aelia Pulcheria Augusta."
"I know. Polimios say."
A few beggars and afternoon idlers began to gather around and gawk at the newcomers. This could be trouble. Getorius opened the coach door and stepped down. He saw that Mordecai already was outside, standing by his wagon to watch the confrontation.
"What is your name?" Getorius asked the young man.
"Abd al-Shira." He again flashed his grin. "I Arabi morshid. Arab guide for you."
"Saturnilos, perhaps Abdalshira—"
"Abd Al-Shira." The youth interrupted to hold up two fingers. "Two word."
Getorius smiled despite possible danger. "Saturnilos, you should listen to al-Shira. Polimios may know more about this town than he had time to tell us at the estate. He did recommend hiring an Arab guide."
"Marissa, my village, nice." Al-Shira held the grin as he emphasized, "Amaen…safe."
Arcadia leaned out the wagon door to ask in an anxious voice, "Getorius, what is happening?"
Before he could answer, al-Shira called out to her in a mixture of Arabic and Latin, "Sayeda…Domina…you woman physician Polimios tell about? Miraati…my wife and first baby sick in village."
"Arcadia trains with me," Getorius told him. "I can look at your wife and child."
"Ah, Zayda al-Lat not want man physician. She want—"
Al-Shira was interrupted by one of the onlookers. A brawny man wearing a ragged tunic, who obviously had spent the afternoon in taverns, lurched forward and began tugging at the twin mules' decorated bridles, trying to loosen a bronze ornament. Saturnilos shouted a warning to him in Greek, then grabbed the whip from Shapur's hand and lashed down at the intruder. The leather tip caught him on the cheek and opened a cut. As the drunkard stumbled back, pressing a hand against the bleeding wound, his companions gathered around him, muttering threats of retaliation at Saturnilos.
"My village safe," al-Shira repeated weakly, the smile gone.
Shapur, the driver, called out to the crowd in Syriac, but his tone was unthreatening and obviously not a warning to them. A few of the men even laughed. Two civic guards patrolling the open square beyond the gateway paused to look out and decide whether or not they should intervene.
Saturnilos saw them and called down to al-Shira. "Climb onto the coach behind this one and show us this village of yours. Shapur, follow him."
The driver glowered at Saturnilos, but obeyed. Getorius clambered back in the coach next to Arcadia and grasped her hand. "That driver, Shapur, probably comes here at least once a week. God only knows what he told that crowd about us. Some even knew him."
Arcadia recalled, "Polimios warned us about bandits."
"Yes, I thought of that earlier. It's fortunate that this al-Shira found us." Unless everyone from Polimios to this innocent-sounding guide is a criminal.
Abd al-Shira's village was half again as far distant as he had said. As the coach crossed a stone bridge over a gulley with only moist sand at the bottom, a mud-brick wall appeared, several hundred feet long. It was broken by five unevenly spaced towers. All largely were in ruins, except for the tallest one that spanned the northwest corner. An arched entrance through the wall was barely wide enough to admit a single cart or wagon.
Once inside, al-Shira shouted greetings to food vendors in an open square, then directed his driver to turn left onto a street of flat-roofed mud houses, barns, and open-fronted artisan's shops. The smell of food simmering in olive oil barely tempered the stench of manure from chicken yards and pig pens. An area to the east was unoccupied. The ruins of former dwellings and workshops, eroded by countless generations of winter rains, now hosted tangled weeds, thorn thickets, lizards, and rodents.
Al-Shira halted the coaches at the last cluster of houses south of the tower, then jumped down and came back to Getorius
"My home. Ahlan wa sahlan," he welcomed in Arabic, then pleaded with Arcadia. "Domina…go to my wife, baby. Min fadlik…please."
Arcadia nodded and turned to her husband. "Will you bring me your medical case?"
"I'm not sure I want you to do this."
"Please, Getorius."
This might take Arcadia away from her obsession with Aphrodisia. That would be helpful to everone. "Very well," he sighed, hoping it would be so.
After Getorius brought the case, Al-Shira led the way through an open door that led into a paved courtyard. A series of rooms were ranged around the open space. A stable to the left penned in a cow, donkey, and several sheep. Across the court, a stairway led up to the building's second level. An ancient olive tree shaded a corner of the yard. Underneath, surrounded by rotting fruit, a limestone column was carved with a crude star set above five wavy lines. Opposite the stairway, kitchen smoke curled from a broad window opening on the first level. Baskets, jars, and amphorae of various sizes were set on the ground and on wall shelves.
A woman knelt in front of an earthen charcoal stove, tending cooking pots.
The sound of a baby crying came from an upstairs room.
Al-Shira spoke in Arabic to a woman sitting with a child on the rim of a well at the center of the court, then beckoned to Arcadia. "Slave take you to wife, baby. Please, Domina, make them seha kwayissa…healthy…again."
Arcadia reassured him, "I…I'll do the best I know how."
She followed the woman up the stairs into an inner chamber. The glare of outdoor light shone through a single small window, but the whitewashed walls reflected and softened the harshness. On one wall, two arched niches held jars and boxes. One opening displayed a red, irregularly shaped stone that was strewn with wilted field flowers. To Arcadia, it seemed like a shrine. A low plank table underneath held an array of jugs, a cup, bowl, towel, and glass unguent vials. Flies circled a dish of overripe persimmons and yellowish dates.
Beneath an earthen roof, the small room was stifling with the day's latent heat. The fetid air smelled of diarrhoea and camphor. On one of the two beds, a girl who looked about sixteen years old cradled a squalling male infant in one arm and listlessly watched a wrinkled oldster wave a palm-leaf fan over her. The slow, swishing motion merely moved hot air around the three persons.
The slave spoke to the mother in Arabic and left the room. Zayda al-Lat coughed, then looked up at Arcadia with a feeble smile. When she held out the baby, whose face was radish-red, the infant's cries increased to shrieks.
Arcadia laid her medical case on the other bed and took up the boy. She found him tightly wrapped in woolen strips, damp with perspiration and smelling of urine. I can't possibly talk to the mother if all she understands is Arabic. The father said this was her first child and obviously no one has told her how to care for it. She touched the infant's face. Burning with fever. First I have to take off these swaddles and get cool water to bathe him.
"Nero? Aqua?" she said in Greek and Latin to ask the older woman for water. When she shook her head, not understanding, Arcadia went to the table beneath the niches and looked into jugs. She found brackish water in one and held it up. "Aqua"
The old woman nodded recognition. "Maiya."
"Maiya. Good, that's one Arabic word I know." Arcadia continued speaking aloud, but to her favorite saint, a patron of physicians. "Blessed Cosmas, I need your help again. I must bring down this infant's' fever and give him something to control the diarrhoea."
Zayda watched from the bed, racked by harsh, intermittent coughs.
Arcadia gave the child to the old woman and brought the water jug, bowl, and towel to the second bed. She filled the bowl, then laid the baby down and began loosening the woolen strips. When they were taken off, the infant's shrieks diminished to whimpering sobs, but the frail little body was the color of red mahogany. "Cosmas, for the fever, we'll have to use what Getorius has in the case." Arcadia dampened the towel and began gently sponging the infant's body. Wetting an angry rash around his buttocks brought on a new bout of shrieking. "I know, baby, that stings," she cooed. Olive oil and wheat flour sprinkled on will soothe the rash. Getorius has spirea for fever, but arctium would be better. How to get the medicine into the child, though? She found the tin container of spirea powder in the case and motioned for the oldster to mix a spoonful in the cup of water. After Arcadia added a pinch of ground valerian root as a sedative, she took her linen sweat cloth from a sleeve, twisted a corner, wet it in the cup, and brushed the infant's lips with the solution. "Child, this probably tastes bitter, but I don't have honey to sweeten it." Yet the baby sucked on the wet cloth like a newborn calf. Arcadia repeatedly dipped the cloth into the solution until it was used up. Honey. That would help the diarrhoea, but how do I ask for it? Imitate a bee?
Arcadia's buzzing pantomime made both women laugh until Zayda murmured, "Asal."
"Asal," Arcadia repeated. "Honey. Now, I know two Arabic words."
After the older woman left for the amber syrup, Arcadia brought the baby to his mother, wrapped only in loose cloth strips and whining on the edge of sleep. Cosmas, how do I get this young girl to let me examine her? Check her uterus for signs of a blood or bile humor imbalance? She and the baby both should sleep now, but perhaps I can approach her in the morning.
While she waited for the woman to return, Arcadia studied the girl. Thin to the point of anorexia. Wasted, really, from that constant coughing. Mouth ulcers. Those small breasts couldn't properly nurse an infant, so she must have a nursemaid, perhaps the slave woman who brought me here. Zayda is deathly pale, while everyone I've seen here is dark skinned. Her husband implied she was sick, and her illness is quite serious.
When the old woman returned, Zayda dipped a finger in the honey and let her infant son suck off the sweetness.
Arcadia closed the medical case, rinsed her hands in the bowl, and came to the bed once again. Exhausted from crying, the child was asleep.
" 'A time to keep'," Arcadia murmured, realizing she had not thought of Aphrodisia the entire time she was in the girl's room. "What is your baby's name?" she asked, then realized the girl would not understand. She pointed to her and said, "Zayda." Then touched the baby and tried to use her expression to ask the same question.
Zayda understood and looked at the black-haired infant in her arm. "Shira."
"Shira, like his father. I must go, Zayda, but I'll come see you again in the morning." When Arcadia squeezed her hand in parting, the girl grasped it and motioned for her to sit on the bed. Zayda reached back with the sticky fingers of one hand and pulled a golden, hand-shaped medallion over her head.
* * *
Waiting on a bench set under an ancient olive tree, with Abd al-Shira, Getorius tried to learn more about the guide.
"Do you do other work, al-Shira? Help your family?"
"No. I am here, guide, to make shekels" He pointed through the open courtyard entrance to vineyards, olive tree groves, and cultivated fields beyond the ruined eastern walls. "My people farmers, but is not to my liking." He grinned again, revealing the perfect teeth whose whiteness was enhanced by his swarthy skin. "Hard work."
"Were you born in Marissa?"
"No. Makkah, in what Rome call 'Arabia Felix? But what is felix…'fortunate'…there, my father ask? Sand? Will we sell sand to each other and earn shekels? Even until the sea dry up, my father say, no one ever will be rich in Arabia, so he come here when I baby. We not Christian, not Hebrew."
"Then whom do you worship? I mean, do you have a religion?"
"Sun. Moon. My name, Abd al-Shira, mean, 'Servant of Sirius.' Of bright star in month of Julius that make Egypt Nilus River run deep." He stood and went to the design on the stone column. "This my clan sign, star Sirius, and water of river. Good sign."
Getorius stood when he noticed Arcadia come down the stairway, the medical case slung over her shoulder. With one hand she held up Zayda's gold medallion, now hung around her own neck. "Al-Shira, your wife gave me this."
"She healthy? Baby?"
"Both asleep. I'll go back to them in the morning, but that old woman can tell you what I did."
Despite forbidden familiarity toward a non-related female, al-Shira grasped Arcadia's free hand. "Shokran, Domina. Efharisto"
"You're welcome." Arcadia held up her gift. "This medallion, al-Shira. What is it?"
"Zayda give you?"
"Yes."
"It good, from her geda…mother of mother."
"Her grandmother? It's shaped like a downward pointing hand with a blue-green stone set in the center. What does it mean?"
"We call 'hamsa.' To Hebrew, 'hamesh.' It protect from bad fortune. People now not give you 'evil eye.' Not hurt you. Blue gem from Anatolia. Greek call medallion telesma, 'sacred thing.' Bring good fortune."
Getorius said, "We certainly need some of it by now."
