The Beacon at Alexandria

by Gillian Bradshaw

  After a few minutes the door was flung open, and Thorion crashed into the room, his cloak with its purple stripe all askew and his hair sticking out like a twig broom. “Charition!” he shouted, and embraced me. “Thank God you’ve come; how did you manage it so soon? I only sent for you this morning!”

  I gaped stupidly, and he laughed and began to pull me from the room. The gentleman tried to present him with the petition, but Thorion waved him angrily aside. “My concubine’s in childbirth, this is a doctor for her, you want me to look at some bit of paper? Get out of my way!”

  “Oh,” I said weakly, and followed Thorion. The plight of the Goths would clearly have to wait.

  He had not really needed to send for me at all, and if I’d come in response to his message, I wouldn’t have arrived in time, even if I had used the imperial post — which I would have, as Thorion had sent a courier with a license to fetch me. Melissa (who was, as Maia had said, a sweet girl, though a bit dull) produced a healthy son about two hours after I arrived. She had a perfectly competent midwife with her already, and the birth was absolutely straightforward. I had nothing to do but mix up some cleansing solutions and hand her soothing draughts afterward. Still, I was very pleased to have assisted at my nephew’s birth. He was a fine baby, with dark hair curling over his scalp, and he yelled with outrage as soon as he emerged into the world, and suckled lustily about an hour later. He was plainly not premature, as I had feared; Thorion and Melissa had simply judged the dates wrong. I sometimes think that the ten months Hippocrates allots for gestation is a mistake anyway: it often seems less than that.

  Maia had been helping the midwife, fetching water and so on, and when Melissa was settled and comfortable after the birth, she ran to fetch Thorion. He was waiting in his room, and came running. When he saw Melissa cradling the baby he beamed; he was almost shaking with pleasure when he stroked his son’s head. He kissed Melissa, kissed Maia, kissed the midwife, kissed me, kissed Melissa again. He kissed the baby. You would think that no one had ever had a son before. When the midwife finally persuaded him to leave the room and let his concubine get some rest, he took Maia and me with him, to hear again our opinion of the health, strength, and evident intelligence of his son.

  “But how did you manage to get here so soon?” he demanded once more, after we had said most of what he wanted to hear. “I only sent for you this morning!”

  “Actually,” I told him, “I came to talk to you about another matter. But leave it till tomorrow; let’s have only good things spoken on your son’s birthday!”

  Thorion beamed again. “Let’s drink to his health!”

  Thorion drank heavily to his son’s health, and had to stay late in bed next morning, moaning about his head and his stomach. I gave him some hot, weak, honeyed wine with green cardamom, checked on Melissa and the baby (both doing well), and went to see Sebastianus.

  The duke was busy with some traders when I arrived, but he had me admitted at once to his office. He smiled and waved me to a seat while he settled with them. He wanted so many tons of grain to go to Novidunum, so many to Salices; so much of wine and so much of lentils, to be delivered before the beginning of October. The traders shook their heads and said that there was trouble in Egypt — the Alexandrians were rioting again over some bishop, the port was closed half the time, the grain shipments were irregular — and they couldn’t promise that the grain would get to Thrace by the proposed date.

  “Your friend Athanasios is still causing trouble, even after his death,” said Sebastianus after he had threatened the traders with penalties if they failed to deliver on time, and sent them out.

  “The blame belongs to my enemy Lucius,” I responded. “There wasn’t any trouble when Athanasios was alive. And there wouldn’t be any trouble now if the Alexandrians had the archbishop they chose.”

  “Alexandrians are always rioting over something,” Sebastianus said sourly. “But what brings you here? Or has your friend’s mistress borne her infant hero yet?”

  “Oh, you’ve heard about that?”

  “I had dinner with the most excellent Theodoros last week. He spoke of little else. He almost made me wish Daphne were pregnant, he was so pleased with the idea of being a father. Do I gather I should send him a christening present?”

  “It would be appreciated. The child is a boy; he was born last night, and his father thinks that Achilles was less bold and Adonis less beautiful. But in fact I came here to discuss another matter with Your Honor.”

  Sebastianus gave a snort of laughter. “Discuss away.”

  I told him Gudrun's story, and the smile faded from his face. When I finished he sat silent for a minute, turning a stylus in his hands. “And what do you think I should do about it?” he asked at last.

  “Stop it.”

  “Stop Lupicinus? My commanding officer? I have no authority in Moesia.”

  “Report him to the master of arms, then. Or to your own father: he’d have influence with anyone.”

  Sebastianus put the stylus down and stood abruptly. “I’d heard something of this,” he said. He went to his window and looked out into the courtyard. “Athanaric came through almost a month ago and shouted at me about it for an hour. I wrote to Lupicinus and to my father. I sent the letter west by a fast courier, and Athanaric galloped off to Antioch to report the affair to the master of the offices. Perhaps he’s convinced someone to stop it by now.” Sebastianus did not sound very confident that this was the case.

  “Can’t Your Excellency do anything more?” I asked.

  “No.” Sebastianus turned from the window. “My father has written back. He doesn’t want to interfere with Lupicinus in his command, and he doesn’t think I should either. He says it’s not a military matter, but the concern of the governor.”

  “Isn’t it a military matter? Do you think Fritigern will endure this treatment quietly?”

  Sebastianus winced. “My father says that if the Goths do make trouble, we can always defeat them. The Romans have never been beaten by barbarians.”

  “So the Theruingi are to be crushed by Roman arms, and thousands of them and hundreds of our people no doubt killed in the process, all to satisfy the greed of a few corrupt men? Do you think it’s right that they force people to trade their children for dogs?”

  “Of course I don’t!” Sebastianus snapped. “But it’s out of my hands. Why don’t you go tell your friend Theodoros to do something?”

  “I came to Tomis to do just that. But can’t you do something too? Report Lupicinus to the emperor?”

  Sebastianus gave a deep sigh. “Chariton, I respect you more than I respect most, I’m sure you’re motivated by the most perfect Hippocratic philanthropy, but I can’t go interfering in a brother officer’s command. And I can’t go reporting my commanding officer to the emperor. It’s against the honor of Roman arms.”

  “Oh, damn the honor of Roman arms! Can’t you at least talk to Lupicinus yourself? Point out to him that if Fritigern and his people do rebel and have to be slaughtered, the emperor will be displeased? The settlement of the Goths in Thrace was something that delighted the officials at court. They won’t be happy if it goes wrong.”

  “Lupicinus is making enough on this trade to buy half of Italy. Do you think he’d listen to me?” But Sebastianus frowned as he said this, as though he weren’t sure whether Lupicinus would listen or not.

  “He respects you, doesn’t he?” I asked, pressing my point. “Wouldn’t he listen if you told him he must guard his own back?”

  “He might.” Sebastianus sighed again, and looked at me speculatively. “He might. Very well, I will go see him in Marcianopolis. I don’t want trouble with the Goths on this side of the river. And you can come too.”

  “Me?”

  “The duke of Moesia wants to meet you. Or rather, he wants his doctors to meet you. Maximus may be greedy and unscrupulous, but he is worried about those damned Goths catching the plague and spreading it to his troops. He noticed that we’ve had no trou
ble here, thanks to your systems, and he wants you to tell his doctors how you’ve done it. There: you can come and argue with him yourself. Let’s see . . . we can get away day after tomorrow.” Sebastianus pounced back on the papers on his desk, shuffling through provisioning orders, orders for horses, a license for the post.

  “I told Valerius I’d be away for about a week,” I said, thinking of all my work back in Novidunum, of Raedagunda’s baby, of Melissa.

  “Well, you can write to him and tell him otherwise.” He looked up from the papers and grinned. “You started this, not me. Why don’t you go see your friend Theodoros and get to work on him as well?”

  “At this rate I’ll find myself headed for Antioch,” I said, wishing I’d brought another tunic and another cloak. “But I will. And thank you.”

  Sebastianus laughed. “Thank you. I’m just as glad to do something about this. Athanaric left in a rage because I wouldn’t do more. I have to do something to appease him.”

  I went back to the prefecture. Thorion was up, and was sitting in his office doing business. A horde of local decurions and magistrates were waiting to see him with petitions (and bribes) to be excused from some of their responsibilities. But the scribes recognized me this time, and sent me straight in. Thorion beamed as soon as he saw me.

  “Did you see Melissa?” he asked at once. “How is she? I saw her when I first got up; I thought she looked perfect. That was a damned good hangover remedy you gave me, too.”

  I said that I too thought Melissa looked very well, but that she must rest, keep very clean, and drink plenty of fluids — well-watered wine, and perhaps some milk. The first week or two after childbirth is a dangerous time. Thorion nodded and looked knowing.

  “Maia’s helping with the baby, so Melissa doesn’t have to get up,” he told me. “But I’m glad you’re here as well. How long can you stay?”

  “I’m leaving for Marcianopolis day after tomorrow.”

  “What? But you just said that the next week or two would be dangerous . . .”

  “You’ve got a perfectly competent midwife here in Tomis, there’s no reason to suspect any danger for Melissa, and I’ll leave a few preparations for some of the commoner problems. I have to go, Thorion. Duke Sebastianus wants me to talk to some of the doctors in Moesia about methods of preventing the spread of plagues.”

  “Oh, damn Duke Sebastianus! He seems to think he owns you!”

  “Well, he is my commanding officer. I’ve just come from seeing him. He sends his congratulations on the birth of your son.”

  Thorion looked disgruntled and disgusted. “A woman has no business having a commanding officer. What were you seeing him about? Plagues?”

  “No. Goths.”

  “Has that fellow Athanaric been at you too? He came round here a month ago, wanting me to send half the grain supplies in Tomis and Histria up the river to the barbarians in Moesia. I said it was the responsibility of the governor of Moesia to supply them and I’d hang myself before helping Festinus, and he swore at me.”

  I was beginning to feel quite proud of Athanaric. “You should send the grain,” I said, and I told him Gudrun’s story. He looked disgusted, but shrugged.

  “I heard something of this,” he admitted. “In fact, I’ve been collecting stories like that, and sending them back to the court. Maybe somebody there will listen. Or maybe not. Everybody knows I hate Festinus, and so they discount everything I say about him. I told Athanaric that when he came through.”

  “Couldn’t you send some food, though, as well? Those people are starving.”

  “Lord God Eternal! How can I? We’ve scarcely got enough in the public granaries to last the winter, and Sebastianus will take some of that if he doesn’t get his shipments from Alexandria for the troops. And why should I bail out Festinus? Let him get into trouble. The more trouble he gets in, the better, that’s what I say.”

  “Thorion,” I said urgently, “these people who are starving aren’t Romans. Romans understand about official corruption, they accept it, they work at bribing other officials and pulling strings to get what they want. Goths don’t know any of that. They used to think that the empire was perfect and that imperial officials were just and wise. They won’t think that anymore, and they won’t try to bribe somebody to report Festinus to the emperor. They’ll fight. People will be killed. Sebastianus thinks that if it comes to fighting, that will be the end of the Theruingi and the whole affair, but . . . but there are a lot of Goths. And if there’s a disturbance near the river, we may get more of the Gothic tribes crossing over, the ones who weren’t invited. And behind them are the Halani and the Huns. Oh, I know that the empire always wins in the end, but ‘the end’ could be a long way off. If there’s real trouble because of this, it won’t be limited to Moesia: you’ll be looking at a Gothic army outside the walls of Tomis.”

  Thorion stared at me, looking very uneasy.

  “And think what would happen if you prevented that!” I went on. “I know you want to make a good job of this governorship. Prevent a war and you can go to the court covered in glory and walk into any office you like!”

  “Yes, but that sort of glory costs,” said Thorion unhappily. “If I let a lot of people off paying their taxes, I not only earn money in bribes from them, but they all praise me to the emperor as well, saying how just and moderate I am. But to get enough grain to have a surplus to send up the river, I’d have to exact the last scruple of an ounce due out of the locals, and they wouldn’t like it. It’s much more likely that instead of being covered in glory, I’d be covered with complaints. Then when my term of office is over here, I’d have to hang about the court taking lawsuits and kicking my heels in the chamberlains’ waiting rooms. And I wouldn’t be able to earn a copper drachma here, either. By Artemis the Great! Don’t look so disapproving. You know why I want the money: Festinus cost us dear. Father had to sell off one of the farms with all its stock and twenty slaves in the last year of his life. I was hoping to buy them back with the proceeds of this governorship.”

  “Thorion, how much do the estates bring in every year?”

  “Last year it was produce to the value of three hundred fourteen pounds in gold,” Thorion replied promptly. “Twenty-two thousand, six hundred solidi. That’s down by forty pounds in gold from what it was five years ago. What am I supposed to do if I want a consulship in Constantinople? The games cost more than that, even out of season.”

  “Do we spend twenty-two thousand, six hundred solidi in a year?”

  Thorion looked embarrassed. “Well . . . no. But I have to keep up my position here, and the house in Constantinople as well as our house in Ephesus and all the estates. And that damned harbor in Ephesus always needs dredging, and people are always wanting me to contribute to it; they’ve even written to me here about it. And Johannes the steward says that . . . Oh, damn you, Charition! Very well, I’ll send some grain to your damned Goths! Just watch, though, if Festinus doesn’t manage to get the credit for it!”

  I kissed Thorion. “You’re a credit to your governorship, and a worthy father for your son.”

  “Yes, well. I wish that damned Sebastianus weren’t dragging you off to Marcianopolis. What’s the use of having a sister who’s a doctor if she goes off just when you need her? Oh very well, I’ll write up the orders, and you can take them to Marcianopolis with you. But you’ll have to convince somebody there to accept the grain shipments. Lord, I suppose I’ll have to write to that brute Festinus about it. I only hope you’re right, that I do get some credit for this. It’s hard to be virtuous and punished for it.”

  It’s nearly a hundred miles from Tomis to Marcianopolis; we rode there in five days. Sebastianus said that he sometimes did it in three, but there was no particular need to hurry, as we were taking the coast road and the accommodation along the way wasn’t bad. He was also taking Daphne and some of his household slaves. “She likes a change of scenery,” he explained. “And there’s no saying how long this will take; I might as well be
comfortable while I’m in Marcianopolis.” So Daphne rode in a covered carriage in the middle of the troops, Sebastianus’ chattels bounced about on mules, and we traveled slowly along the coast in the bright summer sun. It was hot weather: when the road ran next to the sea, the men would all drop their arms and dash into the waves, splashing the cold water over each other and laughing. Once Daphne’s carriage driver ran after them, and the lyre player jumped out into the salt water. Sebastianus rode his horse into the sea after her, fell off it chasing her, then caught her and put her back, dripping and laughing, into the inlaid interior. She had the curtains of her carriage pulled back nearly all the time, and she joked with the men and sang marching songs. She teased me because I didn’t go into the water, and I responded that sea-born Aphrodite, goddess of love, was notably hostile to eunuchs. It was a wonderfully happy journey. I don’t think there was a single member of the party who was pleased to see Marcianopolis looming black against the mountains the evening we arrived.

  It was strange to remember how barbarous the city had first appeared to me. It looked such an ordinary place now. Sebastianus dismissed his troops to their barracks and invited me to stay with his household in a wing of the headquarters; he had sent a courier ahead to announce his arrival, and his usual rooms were prepared for him. Sebastianus also offered me one of his slaves to attend me while I was there, but I declined the offer, with thanks. So I had some privacy. I washed, changed into my un-horse-scented tunic, and resolved to buy another pair of trousers. Sebastianus’ slave knocked on the door and conveyed an invitation to dinner from his master. I thanked him and went down to the dining room in which I had first had dinner with the duke; the first person I saw when I entered it was Athanaric.