I cropped my hair in mourning and tried to buy a black cloak and tunic, but the merchants told me that there were none to be had. When I went to the palace in my old blue tunic (I had to give a dose of opium to Peter, who was quite sick with grief) Theophilos asked me why I wasn’t in mourning, and when I explained he gave me an old cloak of his own. Only Athanaric seemed unmoved by it all. Before the archbishop’s body was cold, he’d taken his license and some letters from the prefect, mounted a post horse, and set out for Antioch and the court.
The Arian bishop, Lucius, arrived in the city in the middle of June, considerably sooner than expected. He had come at once from Antioch; he brought with him the imperial treasurer, Magnus, and some letters giving him the use of the city guard — and, as Athanasios had predicted, he made sure he had the troops before he actually ventured into the city. The duke of Egypt was already in Alexandria, with troops from most of the five provinces of Egypt. As soon as Lucius disembarked, the harbor was shut up, and every ship that left had to have a pass from the prefect. The gates were closed and guarded; the troops came down from the citadel and watched the lakeside. And then the Arians went through the city looking for Athanasians.
They got Archbishop Peter. Elected by the clergy and people of Alexandria, according to the canons of the church, he’d taken the episcopal throne of St. Mark two days after Athanasios’ funeral, but he’d been ill frequently since then; it was the shock of grief and fear following the long fast and months of waiting that had made him ill, I judged, rather than some serious disease. At any rate, he reacted to the sudden descent of the Arians with confusion and uncertainty, and the soldiers caught him at the episcopal palace and carried him off to prison. Lucius took the throne of St. Mark, and scourged the church over which he presided.
There were riots, of course. All that time I had lived in Alexandria and never seen one; and now there were riots every day, breaking out in one part of the city after another, always bloodily quelled by the troops. It would be a still, hot noon, the streets empty and baking in the Egyptian sun, and then from somewhere far off would come the sound of shouting. The noise would grow into an indistinct yammering howl, an inhuman sound, rising and falling, coming closer or going further away. People would appear, running — toward the sound or away from it, but running frantically over the glaring stone of the pavements. I would stay inside, in my own room if I could, otherwise at some patient’s. The troops would come marching past, armor chiming, shields on their arms, striking out at anyone they saw; the noise would turn to screams, break up, fade into the hot silence. Then I would go and treat the casualties. The worst was when the mob tried to get Peter away from the soldiers as he was being led off; the troops left a hundred and fifty-two bodies in the streets that time, and I don’t know how many injured, though I treated quite a few of them. I forgot all about diseases and complex prescriptions; I spent my time splinting fractures, treating shock and contusions, stitching up sword and knife wounds. I ran out of opium, and couldn’t buy any more: the marketplace was closed most of the time. I dosed with hellebore and borrowed drugs from Philon; his patients weren’t involved much. Then the authorities began questioning the people they’d arrested. Some were executed, some just tortured and released. Muscles and tendons torn, bones dislocated by the rack, marks of the whip and the rod and the fork and the fire, teeth torn and eyes gouged out — I had to treat them all. The hospitals were closed, the monks all either arrested or fled. But eventually the markets opened again, and I could buy more opium.
They didn’t get Theophilos. The deacon had disappeared quietly during the first round of arrests and installed himself in one of the prearranged hiding places. From there he busied himself with smuggling other leading Athanasians out of the city. He sent for me often, to treat patients. But his first concern was Archbishop Peter.
“If they kill him,” he told me, “then we don’t have a canonically consecrated archbishop any more than the Lucians do, and our case will be that much weaker when we ask for support in the West. And we’re not likely to be allowed to assemble and choose someone, either. We’ve got to get him out.”
But Peter was locked in the citadel, which was on the Lochias promontory and walled off from the rest of the city. No one had been allowed to visit him. We thought he was still alive: he was of fairly high rank, and could not be tortured or executed without trial. And there was nothing he could really be tried for, so he should be safe. But Theophilos was gloomy. “They murdered Bishop Paul of Constantinople,” he said. “Locked him up in a dark cell for six days without food or drink; when they came in and found him still alive, they strangled him. But I don’t think they’d need to strangle Peter. He wouldn’t last six days. And if he dies, they can say that he was ill anyway, and pretend it wasn’t their fault.” Then he sat up and looked at me thoughtfully, with a faint light in his eyes. “They might let his doctor see him, though. Just to prove that it wasn’t their fault.”
“They’d search me,” I told him.
“You wouldn’t have to carry anything,” Theophilos said, warming to the plan. “Not the first time, anyway. It would be useful to know exactly where they are keeping him.”
I said nothing. Peter was my patient, and I felt responsible; I liked the old man, and it hurt me to think of him chained up in prison, and perhaps starved to death. But if I was searched, I’d be found out. It would be my ruin, and no use to the church, since I’d undoubtedly be packed straight off to Ephesus.
“What’s the matter?” Theophilos asked impatiently. “Are you afraid?”
“Yes,” I told him. “I don’t like torture.”
“We’d get you out of the city afterward,” he said reassuringly. “We wouldn’t let them catch you.”
I still said nothing.
Theophilos hit his desk, eyes bright with anger. “Is this your loyalty to your church and your archbishop?” he demanded. “What does it matter if you have to flee the city? Archbishop Peter has every right to expect you to help him! He is your spiritual father, your friend who’s given you hospitality I don’t know how often, and your patient, which I thought counted for something with you. Do you value your career more than his life?”
I winced. I was very tired. It was late at night, and I’d been treating the injured all day. Two of my patients had died of blood poisoning that morning, and I thought another would go that night. I felt guilty and ashamed that amid so much suffering, I had been spared. I had not rioted, tried to free the archbishop, fought at all; I had shut myself into my room until it was safe to go out again. Theophilos’ words hurt me.
“What do they do when they search you?” I asked.
When a noble prisoner is visited by his doctor, the doctor is hardly searched at all. I had envisaged being stripped, or at least having my clothes examined for messages or knives stitched into them, and I had surreptitiously constructed a phallus for myself, and wore it in the appropriate place to deceive any questioning hand. But in fact the jailers watch the prisoner the whole time and rely on this to catch anything the prisoner’s friends might try to smuggle in to him.
I applied to the prefect for permission to attend on Peter, and was sent a letter authorizing a visit. The citadel was heavily guarded; when I presented myself at the gate, my letter was examined carefully before I was admitted. Then I had to wait in the guard room until an escort arrived. I had never been in the citadel before. Through the guard-room window I looked out at the wide streets, the marble and porphyry columns of the public buildings, and the date palms standing tall and green behind the walls of private gardens. It was much quieter than the city.
One of Peter’s guards, a beefy soldier who wore a black cloak over his bronze and leather armor, eventually appeared, eyed me suspiciously, and examined my letter of authorization. Then he nodded and led me into the quiet street. It turned out that the archbishop was being held in one of the watchtowers that overlook the Great Harbor. My escort brought me there and handed me over to another guard, who
examined my letter again. When the seal had been checked, he searched my medical bag, and then led me up to see Peter.
The archbishop was being kept in a fair-sized room. The window was barred, but it might otherwise have been any room in a private house, a neat white room with a red and white tiled floor, a bed, a bench, a chamberpot, and a writing desk devoid of any books or paper. Peter was lying on the bed when I came in, and two more guards were sitting on the bench playing dice. The archbishop’s hands were chained together and the chain was fixed to a bracket in the wall, but it was quite a long chain, and a fine one, with loose shackles. I’d treated plenty of injuries caused by tight ones, and was glad.
“Chariton!” Peter exclaimed when I came in. He sat up, beaming at me. “Bless you, my dear brother! I was beginning to think myself quite forgotten!”
“Greetings, Your Holiness,” I said, and kissed his hand. “No one has forgotten you. How are you?”
None too well. He had a slight fever and some dysentery, and he was very low in spirit. I checked him over and recommended barley broth for the dysentery. I could not say much with the guards listening, but I assured him that his friends held him in their thoughts and prayed for him.
“And I pray for them,” he told me. “I’ve heard about what’s been happening.” He was silent for a moment, staring at his shackles, then looked up with tears in his eyes. “I wish Thanassi hadn’t nominated me to the throne. I am not worthy of it. All those people suffering martyrdom on my behalf, and I’ve failed them already.”
“You’ve been unwell,” I told him. “It’s too soon to talk about failing. And you know that Athanasios always said that he was unworthy and should never have taken the throne, so you’re in good company regretting it.”
He shook his head. “Thanassi was different. He was afraid of what power would do to him, and what he would do with it, but he always knew how to get it and use it. He tried to avoid the throne — he even had himself sent off to Constantinople when Archbishop Alexandros was dying — but no one ever doubted that he was destined for it. But me! I can’t keep my own head straight, let alone direct anyone else in an emergency. The throne should have gone to Theophilos.”
I saw that the guards took note of this, but I just smiled and said, “His Holiness nominated you, and you admit that he generally knew what he was doing. Have courage! We’ll do what we can to make you comfortable.”
“Can you get me some copies of the Scriptures?” he asked. “I have nothing to read here, and it’s hard to stay faithful when your mind is idle.”
I promised to ask the authorities on his behalf, and was escorted out of the room.
Before I left the citadel I was taken to a small room at the prefect’s residence and questioned for a long time by two officials, one of them a notary who made notes in shorthand of everything I said. They wanted to know about Theophilos and some of the other clergy. I pretended to believe that they had fled the city. They offered me a bribe, which I turned down with apologies, saying that I was only a physician and that no one had trusted me with any information. I told them all about Athanasios’ illness and the state of Peter’s dysentery, giving them a wealth of unwanted medical detail. Then I passed on Peter’s request for books, deprecating it slightly and playing smug doctor to the best of my ability. They sent to ask the prefect about it, and he sent a note authorizing me to give Peter a set of Gospels. Eventually my questioners let me go. My escort showed me firmly back to the gates of the citadel; the heavy doors were opened, and I stepped back into the hot, noisy, free city. I gave a long sigh, and had to go sit down for a little while to calm myself. Only when the ordeal was safely over could I admit to myself how deeply it had frightened me.
When I was sure I wasn’t being followed, I went to Theophilos and told him about the interview. He was very pleased. “A watchtower!” he said. “If we could get him out of that, it would be an easy matter to get him into a boat and away from the citadel. And if we could get some money to him somehow, and bribe the guards . . . yes, you’ve done very well, Chariton. Thank you.”
“Do you want me to leave the city now?” I asked nervously.
“No, don’t do that! They’ll be watching you now. It will make them suspicious if you disappear. Just go about your normal duties; I’ll get word to you if I think of some way to get the archbishop out.”
“What about the books?”
“Oh! Yes, I’ll have Peter’s own set of Gospels sent to you, and you can drop them off tomorrow. Or perhaps . . can I see your letter of authorization?”
I handed it to him and he read it, then folded it over and put it in his purse, smiling. “The letter just authorizes the bearer to deliver some Gospels to the house where Peter is being kept. I’ll give it to one of the bishop’s friends, and he can send someone to deliver the books this evening.” He sat still a moment, staring at one of the signet rings on his hand; he twisted it back and forth, then looked up at me and smiled again, a peculiar smile. “How do I reach you quickly if I need to warn you?” he asked.
I told him that I would leave a list of my patients at my house, and he nodded and thanked me again as I left.
Two days later I returned to my house late in the evening and found no one there. The door was unlocked; I went in and called the nuns, but no one answered. I started up the stairs. As I was climbing the second flight, the door to my own room opened, and a soldier looked down at me. I stopped, and he ran down the stairs and grabbed my cloak. “Chariton of Ephesus?” he asked, pushing his face close to mine. The whites of his eyes were yellowed, and under the bronze guard of his helmet he had a broken nose.
“Yes,” I said. “What is the matter?”
He snorted and dragged me up the stairs without answering. My room was brightly lit by both my own oil lamps and a burning torch. Two other soldiers were going through my things. The one who had hold of me shoved me through the door, then came in himself, closing the door behind him. “Here he is,” he told his fellows. “Didn’t run off after all.”
“I’ve been attending my patients,” I told them, trying to pull myself straight. “Who are you and what do you want? I’ve done nothing wrong.” I tried to sound confident, but I was very frightened. I didn’t think I could be punished simply for being a man’s doctor, but Bishop Lucius might do anything.
“Peter of Alexandria,” said the soldier who had grabbed me. “Where is he?”
I stared. Theophilos had said that he’d get me out of the city, that he wouldn’t let them catch me. Surely he hadn’t managed to get Peter out already? Surely he’d have told me first if he was going to do such a thing? “He’s . . . he’s in prison,” I said. “In the citadel. I saw him there day before yesterday.”
They sneered. “We know you did. You were the only one of his faction that did see him there. Where is he now?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
One of the soldiers grabbed me and twisted my arms behind my back, and another one hit me across the face, twice. It stunned me, and I started to slump down, until the pain in my arms stopped that. “Holy Christ,” I said.
“Stop praying,” said the soldier, and hit me in the stomach. I doubled up; the other man let go of me and I fell onto the floor. The soldier kicked me twice, once in the ribs and once in the crotch; it would have been agonizing if I were really male, and it was still very painful. I cried out, and the one behind me grabbed me and pulled me up again, twisting my arms.
“I am a gentleman,” I said when I could talk again. “You can’t do this to me.” I was shaking badly, and could feel something running over my chin; blood from a cut lip, I supposed.
“You? Eunuchs are slaves.”
“I am freeborn and of good family!”
“You’re a filthy ass-licking Athanasian slave!” said one of the soldiers. But they didn’t hit me again. It’s illegal to torture gentlemen, and a victim’s “good family” could ruin a soldier.
“We’ll check who he is when we get
him to the prison,” the chief soldier said to the others. “Tie him up.”
They tied my hands behind me with a long leather thong, leaving an end loose to hold on to. Then they shoved me into the far corner, out of their way, and continued going through my things. “By Kybele!” one of the soldiers said. “What a lot of books!”
The chief soldier picked out Athanasios’ treatise on the Incarnation and snorted; one of the others picked up the Galen. It fell open to an illustration of the heart and lungs, and he gaped. “Is it sorcery?” he asked his superior nervously.
“It’s a medical text,” I put in hurriedly. “On anatomy.”
The soldier gave me a dark look, and held the book out toward the torch to see whether it would burn.
“No!” I shrieked. “Please don’t! It’s very valuable!”
At this they regarded it speculatively, with more respect. “Better take it as evidence,” the chief commented. “And the letters.”
So they packed all my books and the few letters on the desk into my clothes chest. They took my medical bag away and shoved that in on top. They looked for money, but there wasn’t much in the room: I still kept all valuables at my bank. They took the loose change there was and pocketed it. Then, with two of them carrying the chest and cursing the weight of the books and the other holding the thong that tied my wrists, they took me down the stairs, through the empty house, and along the streets to the prison in the citadel.
The Beacon at Alexandria Page 22
