The Beacon at Alexandria

by Gillian Bradshaw

  I had innocently believed that I’d been in love with Theogenes; that the mixture of affection and regret I’d felt for him had been the worst I had to fear from “Desire, tyrant of gods and men.” I learned my mistake. I hadn’t dreamed of him, and waked, sweating, to lie half the night burning and biting my nails, or gone hot at the sound of his footsteps. Of course, I should have avoided Athanaric as I would a poisonous snake. Nothing could come of the passion but exposure and disgrace. Marriage was out of the question — his father meant him to marry an heiress, and no one would marry an army doctor. I felt quite dizzy with longing, and even dreamed of going to him secretly and saying, “I am not really a eunuch; my name is Charis, not Chariton; I’m still young and I used to be thought rather pretty. Sleep with me and keep it secret, please!” But what would that lead to? Athanaric was particularly unlikely to keep it secret. He’d ask questions and more questions, find everything out, and more than likely send me back to Thorion. And even if he didn’t, would the passion extinguish itself on fulfillment, or would it just grow, binding me to Athanaric with invisible chains? Or, worse, with visible ones. I supposed that I could get pregnant as easily as the next woman; indeed, Hippocrates says that women who are healthy and accustomed to hard work conceive more easily than delicate gentlewomen. I knew a few drugs that were supposed to impede conception, but I doubted that they’d work for long; like aphrodisiacs, such things tend to be unreliable. That would leave me in a fix: disgrace myself before all the world by bearing the child, or mix myself some purgative to get rid of it, breaking my oath and risking my life. No, it was impossible. I should simply avoid the man and do everything I could to put him out of my head.

  But I hadn’t the strength. I wanted to see him. I tried to talk myself out of the passion. Why, after all, should I love Athanaric? True, he was well born and intelligent and looked splendid on horseback, but was that really so very unusual? Sebastianus was better-looking and more cultured, but though I did find him attractive, I certainly didn’t lose sleep over him. Why should I over Athanaric?

  It didn’t work; I only discovered more reasons why I did love Athanaric — the way he made me laugh, the way he swaggered more when he knew he was disliked, the way he stood with a thumb through his sword belt and the sun in his hair, grinning. And beyond that, something deeper; I suppose a passion as fierce as mine had to have deep roots. Birth and training, rank and responsibilities did not make him, as they make most of us. I felt that he had chosen the rules he lived by, and chosen well: that he was free, that the world could fall to pieces around him and he would gallop off through the chaos, still distinctly and indefinably himself. And I cursed myself for my reasoning, and stopped it. But I couldn’t bring myself to avoid him.

  Indeed, I pressed him to be my guest whenever he was in the fort, saying, as Sebastianus had done, that I missed the company of educated men and that I was eager for news. And he usually accepted my invitations. Since he was in the region most of the time now, I saw quite a lot of him. I knew that he quite liked me — he respected my skill, for all his jokes about it, and he respected what he called my honesty. He seemed to enjoy my company. Of course I had to be extremely careful to show nothing of what I felt. If he suspected anything of that, I knew I’d never see him again. He was not the sort to like boys or eunuchs; I wouldn’t have fallen in love with him if he had been. So I would say, “Come to dinner if you’ve time, next time you cross the river!” and he would come, and find me still at the hospital, pretending to have forgotten the invitation. Then I would apologize, and wash myself up and take him back to my house for a dinner during which he would tell me the news of the empire and I would deliver at least one Hippocratic lecture; and then he would go off, either across the river or up to the presidium, and I would go have a cold bath and chew on my fingers, nearly crying with frustration. My only consolation — and it was a cold one! — was that such a strong passion must fade with time, ebbing, so I hoped, into an ordinary friendship.

  One thing that made it easier was that there was a lot of news that year, so we had a lot to talk about. The western emperor, the Augustus Lord Valentinian, died late in the autumn at Brigetio in the diocese of Illyricum, where he’d been preparing a campaign against the barbarian Quadi. He had ruled the world for nearly twelve years, and he was senior to his brother, whom he had appointed. The news struck the troops like an earthquake. (It would appear that he had died of apoplexy, outraged at the insolence of some envoys from the Quadi, and that he had had no doctor on hand to treat him at once; I had to discuss apoplexy with everyone in Novidunum.) He had long before appointed his son Gratianus as co-Augustus with him, but this young man was only eighteen and was far away in Gaul at the time of his father’s death. It was feared that one of the Illyrian generals might try to claim the purple on the spot. The one under particular suspicion happened to be Sebastianus’ father, the count of Illyricum, who was very popular with his troops. The commander of the household troops, Merobaudes, kept the news of the emperor’s death secret as long as he could, and sent the elder Sebastianus off on a fool’s errand to Mursa, hundreds of miles away. Then he had the emperor’s other son fetched and proclaimed Augustus on the spot, to insure the succession of the house of Valentinian. This little boy was only four years old, and had been living in the region with his mother. Sebastianus was greatly annoyed.

  “My father is a loyal and honest man, and Merobaudes might just as well have accused him of treason!” he told Athanaric and me one evening. He and Athanaric were both visiting Novidunum, Athanaric on his way across the river and Sebastianus during an inspection of the troops. Sebastianus had invited us to dinner. He habitually invited me when he was in the camp, and invited Athanaric whenever they met: he enjoyed company.

  “People have been made emperor against their will,” Athanaric said soothingly. “The troops like to have an emperor present, everyone knows that, and if they had acclaimed your father, what could he have done? He wouldn’t have been able to convince Gratianus Augustus that he didn’t plan it. He would have been forced to keep the title just to hold on to his life — and more than likely he would have lost his life anyway, after a costly war.”

  Sebastianus grunted. “Merobaudes could have told him that he was worried about something like that. Father would have taken his own steps to prevent it, gone off on his own somewhere. Then he wouldn’t have this stain on his reputation. And making that child an Augustus! Valentinian the Second! What will he do, declare war on the Alamanni unless they hand over all their toys? ‘That’s His Sacred Majesty’s rocking horse!’ ”

  Athanaric sighed. “He is Augustus now, and we should keep our mouths shut. No good ever comes of making fun of an emperor. My friend, no one’s accused your most esteemed father of anything; he still has his command, the trust of the new emperor, and the respect of his troops.”

  “And so he should!” said Sebastianus, but he was mollified.

  That spring there was another upheaval along the frontier to outrage Sebastianus. The father of his friend Theodosius was suddenly relieved of his command in Africa — where he had bloodily distinguished himself — and summarily executed at Carthage. No one knew why. No charge of treason was officially brought, and the younger Theodosius was allowed to keep the family estates, though he too was relieved of his command. The men said that the count had been executed for sorcery, but Sebastianus rejected this idea. “Oh, it’s true the count was bloodthirsty,” he told me when he was next at Novidunum. “But he was honest; you wouldn’t find him consulting oracles.”

  At the mention of oracles I felt a peculiarly cold sensation at the back of my neck. “Maybe it was because of his name,” I said.

  “His name?” asked Sebastianus irritably. “What do you mean?”

  “There was an oracle received by a conspiracy a few years back, predicting who would succeed the present Augustus.”

  “It said that a Theodoros would succeed. Everyone heard that.”

  I shook my head. “
The conspirators asked it who would succeed Valens, and it spelled out THEOD. Then they said ‘Theodoros’ and didn’t ask it any more. It could be interpreted to mean Theodoros or Theodotos or Theodoulos — or Theodosius. Perhaps Valens didn’t like to see someone with a name like that in such an eminent position, and sent a message to Gratianus about him.”

  Sebastianus looked uneasy, but he shook his head. “I can’t believe that a man like Count Theodosius would be put to death on the strength of that alone. Though that damned oracle has killed a lot of men. They say that our lord the Augustus Valens takes it very seriously. It predicted ruin for him as well.”

  “What?” I hadn’t heard this part of the oracle, and stared in surprise.

  “ ‘Tisiphone’s deep wrath arms evil doom, when Ares rages upon Mimas’ plain.’ That’s what it’s supposed to have said, anyway. They say that His Sacred Majesty is afraid to visit anywhere in Asia — believe there’s a mountain called Mimas there.”

  “Yes, near Erythrae. But I wouldn’t trust an oracle. Even if there’s any truth in it, it’s sure to be couched deceptively. Like the man who was told he would die in Alexandria and spent all his life avoiding the great city, only to die in a posting station at a tiny village of the same name.”

  “Oracles are deceptive, that’s certainly true. Immortal God, I wish that one had never been delivered! I’d hoped it was forgotten already.”

  That spring I also had some news from Thorion. He sent me a jubilant letter from his latest position as assessor with the court in Antioch. He had hopes for another promotion, this time to a governorship. “The prefect Modestus hates me,” he wrote, “but the master of the offices is my friend. I’ve had two terms as an assessor now, and I met His Illustriousness at the hippodrome last week. I never thought Father’s chariots would be good for anything, but I got into conversation with Eutherios, and I discovered that he’s keen on racing. So, not to let the opportunity slip, I gave him Father’s prize blacks. He was delighted and invited me to dinner. While I was there he asked me very kindly about my prospects, and then said that I seemed an able young man and was wasting my time in assessorships and ought to have a province. I said I felt able to run one, provided it wasn’t too large, and he laughed and said he’d see what he could do. I named one province in particular, but I won’t tell you which, in case I don’t get it. I hope I do get it, though. You can make some money in assessorships, but to repair the damage to our estates I need a governorship. Speaking of damage, have you heard that that brute Festinus is going to get a province in Thrace? Moesia, I think it is. I hope he dies there.”

  I shoved the letter to the back of my writing desk; I had no time to answer it just then. I was working very hard: the plague to the west was threatening to spread to our troops, and I was always being called up the river — or across it. Fritigern had taken to sending one of his attendants for me whenever a member of his household or one of his friends fell gravely ill. I was generally able to go; I now had several assistants on whom I could more or less rely, so I could be confident that my patients in the hospital would be well looked after in my absence. I’d let Arbetio copy all my books, and, as he was naturally gifted, he had absorbed them all and could run the hospital just as well as I could. I had also acquired a student, a Goth by the name of Edico. He was the nephew of the wisewoman Areagni, and he had come across the river especially to learn the art of healing from me. He was a tall, fair young man, extremely bright and capable but, unfortunately, illiterate, so it was no use telling him to go look anything up in Dioskourides; I had to explain it all myself. I arranged for him to be taught letters by one of the attendants, but he found it slow work, though he was quick enough to pick up how to mix a drug or set an arm.

  Besides these two colleagues, several of the attendants were by now able to administer a few of the basic remedies as well. Xanthos was still about, but he had little to do except glare; Diokles, despite Sebastianus’ prohibitions, was down in Histria more and more often. Nonetheless, I was not altogether happy about spending much time among the Goths. I had come to Thrace to treat Romans, and I had always disapproved of Diokles having so many private patients. I worried that people would think I was acting from greed — the Gothic nobles were very generous, because they consider it a sign of high rank to give many gifts, and I was earning from them several times what I was paid as a salary. The money was quite welcome — it isn’t easy to support two slaves, a cow, some chickens, and a horse on an army doctor’s pay — but it was much more than I needed, and I didn’t want to set a bad example for my colleagues. I began to refuse to go if the Gothic patient was further away than a half-day’s journey, unless it was a really exceptional case and Athanaric intervened.

  Even so, as the spring wore on I seemed to be crossing the river at least once a fortnight, and usually once a week. By this time many Goths from the northern part of their country had moved south, down to the river, and were preparing eagerly to cross into Thrace as soon as the Romans would allow them. They were fleeing from the Huns. Many arrived penniless, all their possessions lost to the invaders; some were injured or had old, infected wounds. They camped near the river, fishing, picking berries, and begging for food. Fritigern tried to distribute supplies to them from the southerners who had not been affected by the invasions, but there was barely enough to go round. Disease was rife among these northerners, weakened as they were by traveling and hunger. Fritigern wanted my advice on how to control the spread of plagues, and Sebastianus was eager for me to help: he didn’t want the diseases spreading across the river. So I went over and back frequently, and I tried to get my slaves to teach me some Gothic.

  Late in May, when Diokles was returning from Histria up the delta, his boat struck a submerged log and broke up in the river. The passengers were rescued by another vessel, which happened to be passing, but Diokles came back wheezing and shivering to Novidunum. He went to bed and never got up again: either the soaking or something he’d picked up in Histria had settled on his lungs. I was across the river seeing to the treatment of plague cases when this happened; I came back to find Diokles being treated at home by Xanthos. I’d never liked him, but I went to see how he was and offered to help with the treatment. They both glared at me like basilisks; Xanthos told me to get out. I got out, after pleading with him to go easy on the bleeding and the hellebore. I felt, perhaps wrongly, that I could do nothing more than plead in this case: I couldn’t impose on a fellow doctor a method of treatment he detested, or take a patient out of the hands of his friend and put him into those of his enemy.

  Xanthos ignored my advice, of course. When Diokles died a week later, he’d been bled white. Xanthos was at least consistent: he used the same abominable methods on his friends as he did on strangers. I suppose a few patients must have survived them and he was convinced that they could cure. But Diokles’ death he blamed on me.

  I had scarcely heard that Diokles was dead when Valerius had me summoned to the presidium. He still didn’t like me, but he was deeply impressed by all I had done with the hospital, and treated me with great respect. “Umm, yes, most esteemed Chariton,” he said, sitting at his desk and fidgeting with a paper. “I’m very sorry, but, umm, your colleague, the most respected . . . that is, your colleague Xanthos has accused you of sorcery.”

  I stared. The dissection, I thought. but why has he waited so long? “What does he say I’ve done?” I asked cautiously.

  Valerius pursed his lips in distaste and picked up the paper he’d been fidgeting with. “He says here that you came once to visit the most unfortunate Diokles, and that Diokles took a turn for the worse immediately after the visit. He says that after Diokles’ death, a search of the room revealed a rabbit’s foot wrapped in a sheet of lead under the clothes chest. He says that you have sorcerously mutilated the bodies of several animals, and even that of a man, and that it is common knowledge that you are a sorcerer and effect your cures by magic. He says that he is taking the case to the provincial courts in Tomis, a
nd he wants me to put you under arrest and search your house for evidence of sorcerous practices. I hope you won’t mind if I do have your house searched? I am sure, most excellent Chariton, that it is all nonsense, but I would not wish to be found remiss in my duty before the governor.”

  One look at Valerius’ nervous face showed that he was not at all sure that it was nonsense, and that he expected me to refuse to have my house searched, at least until I had had time to remove any evidence of sorcery. I said nothing for a moment, trying to clear my head of shock and think. “Can Xanthos charge me before the governor?” I asked at last. “I would have thought we should use a military court.”

  “Oh! He’s not commissioned, and neither are you; he could use a military court, but he’s not obliged to.”

  Sebastianus would have been judge in a military court, so it was plain that Xanthos would avoid it if he possibly could. “You are welcome to search my house,” I said; I’m sure I sounded as angry as I felt, because Valerius winced. “Just let me oversee the search, to make sure you don’t damage anything. But first let me talk to Xanthos.”

  Xanthos was at his house. When I knocked at the door his slave opened it, saw who it was, gave a shriek, and closed it again. I knocked again, and after a minute it opened, and there was Xanthos. He made the sign against the evil eye and stood there staring with hatred around the edge of the door.

  “Don’t be ridiculous; you must open that and talk to me,” I said. “I hear that you’re accusing me of sorcery. You don’t have a case. I know you hate me, but I’m not guilty, and you can’t prove that I am. Why don’t you spare both of us the expense and trouble of the provincial court?”