We arrived in Marcianopolis in the evening. Though not much more than a town by Asian standards, it was strongly fortified. The stone walls towered black against the sunset as our little boat approached them, with the Haemus mountains looming behind them and shutting out the light. Even the river passage was fortified with gates, though these were standing open when we entered the city. We landed at a stone quay in the dusk, and the passengers climbed out, stiff from sitting in the cramped boat. Neither of them had spoken to me during the journey, though both had done some more staring, and they had whispered to each other. I could scarcely understand what they said even when they spoke in a normal tone, their Greek was so peculiar and the accent so unfamiliar. I felt tired and downhearted. I hired a porter for my chest and found a room at the nearest tavern.
The next morning I went to present myself to Duke Sebastianus. I felt nervous of the meeting, so I dressed carefully, putting on my newest tunic and my best cloak, the one I’d bought for my medical examination in Alexandria. I didn’t have a mirror, but there was a black earthenware bowl of water in the room, and I looked at myself in that. It had been some time since I looked in a mirror. It was a thinner face now than I remembered, and older. The detached, assessing look had deepened, become one of wariness, even of suspicion. I smiled at it, mentally prescribing rest and regular meals, and the face smiled back, becoming professional and assured: the face of a doctor trained in Alexandria. I’d do. Feeling more confident, I set out to see Duke Sebastianus.
I knew he would be staying with the count, the military commander of the whole of Thrace, who had his headquarters in Marcianopolis. I had no trouble finding the building: it was the largest one in the city. It stood fronting the marketplace, dwarfing the governor’s residence and the cathedral church next to it. Two gilded standards stood crossed over the doors: a dragon and the labarum of Christ. A troop of guards stood beside them. They were in full uniform, helmeted and booted, carrying shields over their backs and spears in their hands. They wore trousers under their tunics, and carried long swords slung from belts across their shoulders. Many of them were fair-haired and bearded, and besides their regulation Roman uniforms they wore a variety of jewelry. One man had a wolfskin fastened over his helmet, the teeth hanging savagely above his eyes, the paws tied under his chin; another had a necklace of boar's teeth; yet another wore a bearskin for a cloak, tossed casually back from his shoulders. They looked like Gothic barbarians, not Roman troops at all. Then I realized that all the men in the marketplace wore trousers too, and I noticed that many of the women were wearing stockings under their sandals. Presumably the dress made sense; it must be cold in the winter. But the scene was barbaric, for all the Corinthian colonnades of the public buildings. I stood in the marketplace for a moment, staring at it and feeling horribly out of place. I didn’t feel well dressed and confident anymore: I felt foreign. Chariton the eunuch with his Alexandrian education was totally alien to this frontier world of camps and barbarians, and as for Charis, the mind could not conceive a less “proper” place for a young lady. I even wondered for an instant whether I should have jumped ship in Constantinople, gone to Thorion, and given up my masquerade.
But of course I could never give up medicine. Well, I reasoned with myself, you stood out in Alexandria as well, as a eunuch and a foreigner. It was hard there at first; it all looked foreign to you when you arrived. Pull yourself together and go see Duke Sebastianus.
I went over to the guardsmen and explained who I was, and they let me into the headquarters and told me to wait.
There was no one else in the waiting room, but I sat there for more than an hour before one of the palace scribes came and called me. “His Prudence the Duke is with Count Lupicinus,” the scribe explained as he showed me the way. “They were arranging troop movements, but they’ve finished now. They’ll both see you.” He knocked on a door, then opened it. “Chariton of Ephesus, a physician,” he announced.
There were two men in the room, sitting at a table littered with papers. Light from a window high in the wall poured onto the middle of the papers, making the rest of the room dim. The legionary emblems were carved into the wall and gilded; a bearskin rug snarled by a couch in a corner. One of the men was young, golden-haired, and absurdly handsome. He wore a gilded breastplate and a red cloak; a red-crested gold helmet rested in the middle of the patch of sunlight, shining. The other was of late middle age, stocky and dark-going gray, with heavy jowls. He too wore a red cloak, but his armor was plain leather and iron. The older man was leaning back in his chair and scowling; the younger was sorting the papers. But when I was announced he put them down, jumped up, and came over to me.
“Greetings,” he said, and shook hands, smiling to display a set of even white teeth. “I’m Sebastianus, duke of Scythia; I had a letter about you from my old friend Athanaric only two days ago. You’ve traveled swiftly!” His Greek had the same clipped, staccato accent as Athanaric’s. I’d taken the accent to be Gothic, but I learned that it was simply Illyrian.
“Who’s that?” asked the older man — Lupicinus, he must be, the supreme commander of the troops in Thrace. He had a low, growling voice, and an accent I found disturbingly familiar. I couldn’t place it for a moment, and then I remembered: Festinus. Was Lupicinus a Gaul as well, then?
“A doctor from Alexandria,” Sebastianus told him, going back to the table and shuffling the papers together. “Palladios, the prefect of Egypt Augustamnica, and Athanaric the agent have arranged for him to come work in the hospitals here. I need someone skilled to set Novidunum in order.”
Lupicinus looked at me suspiciously. “Some Ephesian eunuch,” he concluded. “If he’s any good as a doctor, what’s he doing here? Well, eunuch?”
“I was private physician to His Holiness, Bishop Athanasios,” I said. Athanasios was famous, or rather notorious. It took a moment, but both men understood; from the expression on Sebastianus’ face, I judged that Athanaric’s letter hadn’t mentioned this detail. I wondered what it had said.
Lupicinus laughed. “So you shoved enemas into that old rabble-rouser! You some damned Nicene fanatic?”
“No, Your Excellency,” I said, glad of Philon’s training in patience. “I am a Christian and a Nicene, but not passionately so.”
Lupicinus grunted. “Good. I’ve seen enough of theological disagreements. The state post is always cluttered up with bishops rushing about to their synods and shouting at each other. And that Athanasios was the worst of the lot, tickling the ears of the Alexandrian mob with his seditious preaching. Though I hear that now he’s dead, the Alexandrians are indulging their taste for riot. They ought to be whipped.”
“Many of them are being whipped now,” I said — quietly, since I didn’t want to offend a man who could command me.
“I fear you’ll find work in a military hospital a considerable demotion after service with a great bishop,” Sebastianus put in, hastily trying to preserve the decencies of conversation.
I smiled to show that I appreciated his courtesy. “It’s a case of save myself. What care I for the shield?” “ I told him.
Lupicinus looked completely blank. Sebastianus smiled, but suppressed his smile hurriedly. “What shield?” asked Lupicinus irritably.
“He was quoting poetry,” said Sebastianus. “Archilochos’ poem on having thrown his shield away.”
Lupicinus gave me a look of profound contempt. “Damned overeducated Greeks,” he said, to no one in particular. “I don’t see that there’s any need to go bringing in some lisping Asian eunuch to treat the men, some girl-faced gelding with lily-white hands and a white liver too. What do you mean to do, eh, Chariton of Ephesus?” He imitated an Asian accent with the too-heavy lisp of a clown in the mimes. “Treat them with hot baths and perfumes? The old way of medicine is good enough for me. Here, if a man doesn’t get better, he dies, and you’re well rid of the burden of him.”
“Most excellent Lupicinus,” I said, keeping my voice level, “it’s true anywher
e that if a man doesn’t get better, he dies. The thing is to make him get better. I don’t know what the old way of medicine is. Quite possibly it’s as good as anything I’ve learned in Alexandria. But I understood that doctors were required on the frontier, and I am content to serve as one.”
“I am delighted to have a skilled physician for my hospital at Novidunum,” Sebastianus put in quickly. “Most of the men who go there at present seem to die, and the rest are crippled; I hope you can improve on that. If you’ll come with me, I’ll give you letters to the tribune of the camp, and licenses to use the state post to get there.”
He picked up his papers and his helmet from the table, and bowed to Lupicinus. “Most excellent count, much health!” he said, and hurried me from the room.
When we’d walked down the corridor a little way he suddenly stopped and laughed. “Oh Holy Christ!” he said. “ The old way of medicine is good enough for me.” You’d never catch Lupicinus using an army hospital!”
“Did I offend him?” I asked, nervously aware of the man’s power.
“Him? It’s hard not to offend him. He’s dirt-ignorant. He didn’t like your quoting poetry; he thinks Archilochos is a kind of fish.”
“I thought everyone knew that one,” I said.
“Anyone with an ordinarily decent education. Any gentleman. But he’s not only ignorant of Greek letters, he scarcely knows the Latin ones. Money, that’s what he likes — though he’s an experienced commander, I’ll give him that. Don’t worry, he’s forgotten all about you now — he’ll only remember if he himself falls ill, in which case he’ll have me send you from the hospital to look after him. He calls me an overdressed lover of luxury and puts on airs of antique Roman virtue, but he cooks the account books for all that, and his house is like a Sybarite's mansion. ‘The old way of medicine’ — hot baths and perfumes are what he’d like himself, don’t worry about that!”
“I don’t use them,” I said. “Unless he meant steam baths and drugs like myrrh. It’s drugs and anatomy that I learned at Alexandria.”
He gave me a quick assessing look. “Athanaric says you cured him of a deadly fever, and that you’re the only honest eunuch in the world. I don’t see Athanaric going in for perfumes, I must admit. Well, I hope you can do something at Novidunum. I’ll give you authority to rearrange the hospital as much as you need to. There’s plague among the troops stationed on the Danube further west, and I don’t need it here. The barbarians are warring among themselves, and it makes them restless. If our forces were weakened, they might try to cross the river.”
I murmured something about doing my best, and Sebastianus smiled. “Perhaps you’ll have dinner with me this evening?” he asked. “I don’t meet educated men often here in Thrace, and I like to have their company when I do.”
I ate dinner with Sebastianus that evening. He had a set of rooms in the presidium, and had brought some of his slaves with him from his headquarters in Tomis; I found myself treated to the most civilized meal I’d eaten since I left Ephesus. We reclined on our couches, drinking our wine (Chian, in fact — my father’s favorite) and eating our way slowly through the three courses, eggs to apples. I dredged up my training in the classics and capped the duke’s frequent quotes of poetry, so that he continued to think me cultured. The only difference from one of my father’s dinner parties was the singing girl who played the lyre while we ate; the sort of party I went to in Ephesus never had any entertainments but poetry recitals. She was an exceptionally pretty girl, as golden as Sebastianus, and she was wearing the thinnest of silk tunics, showing off a sight Sebastianus evidently enjoyed.
Sebastianus was very pleasant company, talkative and amusing. I soon found out why he felt so free to abuse his superior: his father was the commander of the Illyrian and Italian legions and one of the foremost generals in the West. “Though I’m not the only one on the frontier with a father to live up to,” he told me. “There’s my friend Theodosius, in the Dacian Moesia — his father’s the count, the one who just defeated the rebel Firmus in Africa, the one who restored Britain after Lupicinus made a mess of it. He’s worthy of his father, too; he makes no end of trouble for the Sarmatians. Daphne, my dear” — to the lyre player — “play another song! That one’s as tedious as Lupicinus’ accounting!” Daphne giggled and played another song. “But most of the dukes here are dirt-ignorant,” Sebastianus continued sadly. “Goths, mostly; a few Pannonians and Illyrians — professional soldiers, worthy men, but dull. Initially I had hopes that our friend Athanaric would be posted here, but his father wanted him to go into the civil service instead; he wants him to end up a consul at Rome. A pity, because he’s good company — and of course the Goths will do anything he says.”
“Is he very well educated, then?” I asked. “I never talked to him in Alexandria, except about his health, or mine.”
Sebastianus shrugged. “Tolerably well educated. Not excessively, I suppose. But of course he’s of very good family. And he’s never dull.”
“He’s noble? I thought his name was Gothic.”
“Of course it is. He’s the nephew of the king of the Theruingi, didn’t you know that?”
“The who?” I asked stupidly.
Sebastianus laughed. “There we are. I get caught up in this region, I forget that most of the world has never heard of King Athanaric of the Theruingi. Some call them the Visigoths. They’re the Gothic tribe that live across the river from us, a very powerful tribe — though not as powerful as they used to be. They caused trouble a number of years back, supporting the pretender Procopius. His Sacred Majesty invaded their kingdom to teach them a lesson. He burned some towns and some fields and chased King Athanaric and his people up into the mountains. But he couldn’t catch the king, and the campaign was expensive, so after a while our most illustrious lord decided to offer Athanaric another treaty of peace. But Athanaric refused to come to Scythia to sign the treaty; he said he had scruples about treading on Roman soil. The most illustrious Lord Valens, master of the world, had to conclude the treaty on a boat in the middle of the Danube, to satisfy the scruples of a barbarian king; they say he still resents it. Well, the reason King Athanaric had scruples was that his brother, our friend Athanaric’s father, crossed the river with a troop of federates years ago, fought in the Roman army for years, married a Roman girl, and settled in Sardica to bring up his son to the civil service and, he hopes, to marry an heiress with a good Roman fortune. King Athanaric doesn’t approve.”
“It must be very strange, to be a Gothic commander fighting against Goths,” I said thoughtfully.
“They don’t seem to mind it,” Sebastianus said cheerfully. “They fight against each other all the time, with or without Roman assistance. The Theruingi are preparing for some war now, with the Halani to the northeast. And the Greuthungi to the east of us are at war too. And they say that the Quadi to the west of them are invading Pannonia, and our Lord Valentinian, Augustus of the West, is having to campaign against the Alamanni in Gaul. There’s trouble all along the frontier.” His cheerfulness faded and he sat silent for a moment, looking grim. Daphne still sang in the background, a witty little song about a shepherdess; but Sebastianus suddenly reminded me of the Alexandrians, waiting for their archbishop to die and the troops to come.
After a moment he shook himself. “Still, barbarians are barbarians and Romans are Romans, and the latter always win wars against the former. Though it’s good to be prepared. I hope you can do something with that hospital at Novidunum.”
“I’m no Asklepios,” I said, “but I’ll try.”
Novidunum is one of the larger fortresses on the lower Danube. It’s at the head of the Danube delta, about fifty miles from Histria and sixty from Tomis, on the Euxine. The camp is set on a bluff, overlooking the flat countryside for miles around. The walls of the fort frown down on the brown flood of the river, forbidding the barbarians entry to Roman lands, but in fact Novidunum is as much a trading post as it is a fortress. Its main business is collecting du
ties on trade. Plenty of boats cross the river, taking gold, spices, silk, and crafted work into Gothic Dacia and taking slaves and a few trinkets out. It also has a hospital, which is supposed to care for all the troops in Scythia.
I arrived in Novidunum in a two-wheeled cart with a mixed load of papers and wine sent from Marcianopolis. It was my first experience of the imperial posts, and it was an unimpressive one, jolting along, sitting on top of my traveling case. The cart got fresh horses every twelve miles, but the passenger had no chance to get down, stretch her legs, and find something to eat. I arrived at the fortress very tired and hungry. I climbed down from my trunk and stood on the blessedly firm earth, one hand on my case. I looked around. If Marcianopolis had been barbaric, Novidunum was the end of the earth. Within the stone walls of the fortress was a Gothic town: thatched houses of stone, stucco, and timber; cows staring from sheds beside them. Even the barracks looked un-Roman, despite their neat, legionary squares. They were thatched rather than tiled, and their doors were decorated with the ever-present legionary emblems but were draped as well with arms captured from the Goths and with the skins and heads of wild animals. In the center of the camp was a taller building, entirely of stone, with a tiled roof. I supposed that that was the camp headquarters, the presidium. Where was the hospital?
“Novidunum,” said the cart driver, in case I hadn’t noticed. “Beyond here there’s nothing but barbarians.”
The Beacon at Alexandria Page 25
